


i've found a way (a way to make you smile)

by curtaincall



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Celestial Paper Company, Humor, M/M, Pining, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Romantic Comedy, Sitcom, Slow Burn, and i feel god in this chili's tonight, and they were coworkers oh my god they were coworkers, aziraphale is the world's worst receptionist, crowley.exe endures a series of critical systems failures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-10-10 21:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20535032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: Crowley worked in Sales. He had neverintendedto work in Sales. It had just sort ofhappened.One moment, there he’d been, a newly minted university graduate off to change the world, exquisitely useless Philosophy degree in hand, and now here he was, having sauntered vaguely downwards into a Hell that consisted mainly of cold-calling new customers and sucking up to existing ones.AU based onThe Office.





	1. Trivia Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to AU queen [weatheredlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw) for beta-reading!

Crowley worked in Sales. He had never _ intended _ to work in Sales. It had just sort of _ happened. _ One moment, there he’d been, a newly minted university graduate off to change the world, exquisitely useless Philosophy degree in hand, and now here he was, having sauntered vaguely downwards into a Hell that consisted mainly of cold-calling new customers and sucking up to existing ones.

He’d been in his current job, at the appallingly misnamed Celestial Paper Company, for almost five years now. It wasn’t a good job, even by Crowley’s now basement-level standards. His boss was an idiot, his coworkers were incompetent, there wasn’t even good office coffee. He should have found another job a long time ago. He _could _have, even. Crowley wasn’t a particularly _good _salesman, but he had an instinct for when to push a sale and when to let it be, and he interviewed _very _well. He could, he was fairly certain, go somewhere else and make twice his current (crap) salary, could have a better title, could even, maybe, have his own _office _instead of half a desk in an open floor plan.

But Crowley had no intention of leaving CPC, for several not-very-good reasons and one Very Good Reason. The Very Good Reason’s name was Aziraphale, and he was the receptionist. Aziraphale was blond and wore a bowtie every day and had a distressing tendency to smile at people as though they were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Crowley had borne the full force of one of those smiles on his first day at CPC, and had promptly fallen headlong in love. He’d thought that maybe familiarity would breed contempt, but, instead, his initial infatuation gave way to an enduring fondness. Every ridiculous and annoying habit that he discovered only served to endear Aziraphale to him more. 

Unfortunately, on that first day, when Crowley had only just recovered from the full-force dazzle effect of Aziraphale’s smile, when his thoughts had just begun to morph from a silent scream of _ oh my GOD _into a hazy fantasy about getting married on a hillside surrounded by ducks, he’d received the New Employee Manual from Beelzebub in Personnel and learned that intra-office relationships were strictly forbidden at CPC.

So Crowley had, for the last five years, existed in the torturous balance of knowing that he would never be able to date Aziraphale so long as they both worked at CPC, and fearing that if he were ever to leave the company, he’d lose the certainty of seeing Aziraphale every weekday between eight-thirty and five-thirty. 

And all of that was without even getting _ into _ the glaring fact that Crowley wasn’t at all sure whether Aziraphale reciprocated his feelings. Or was even _ aware _ of them. Oh, there were the smiles, of course, and the way that Aziraphale always seemed genuinely delighted to see him in the morning. There was the softness in his voice when he thanked Crowley for picking up a coffee for him at the cafe downstairs, and the way he laughed even at Crowley’s not-particularly-funny jokes. But all those things could have, Crowley told himself stubbornly, whenever he was feeling particularly gooey and hopeful, just been Aziraphale being Aziraphale. After all, he smiled like that at _ everyone. _Crowley thought the smiles that he got were different, but that was probably just wishful thinking. He had a tendency to do a lot of that, around Aziraphale. 

So he lived in a state of painful uncertainty, plucking the petals off of an imaginary flower and hoarding every held glance and brush of fingertips and secret smile like they were priceless treasures, as though enough _ maybe_s might someday add up to _ yes. _

And when the branch manager of CPC Swindon, Gabriel, came out of his office to announce that his latest stupid team-building idea was a Sales versus Operations trivia contest, Crowley’s first thought wasn’t _ how the hell is that supposed to facilitate team-building, _ or _ what bored demon invented team-building anyway, _ or _ I wonder how I can screw this up for everyone else. _ (Those were all thoughts he had; they just weren’t the _ first_.) His first thought was, _ Aziraphale and I are going to be on different teams. _

“So,” said Gabriel, in the cheery boom of someone who had no obligations outside of work and had certainly never considered that anyone else might, “we’ll all go down to the pub tomorrow at six. Trivia starts at six-thirty, it’ll be fun! Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Michael in Accounting, “is this _ mandatory?” _

A general murmur of assent rippled through the office.

“Well,” Gabriel said, as though he hadn’t even _ considered _ that anyone might not want to give up their Friday evening for a work trivia night (which, to be fair, he almost certainly _ hadn’t), _“uh, I don’t know if it...I mean, can I…” He glanced over at the Personnel corner, where Beelzebub was emphatically shaking her head no. “Uh. No. Not mandatory, I guess.” 

“Great,” said Michael, “then I’m out.”

“But!” Gabriel said hurriedly, “the prize for the winning team is an extra day off. With pay. So. Keep _ that _in mind.”

The rumble of discontent turned quickly to a rumble of interest. Crowley could see Beelzebub practically smacking her head against the wall of her cubicle, presumably at the thought of all the paperwork an extra vacation day for half the office would cause. “Gabriel,” she said, with forced calm, “if I could have a word?”

Gabriel looked at her with the expression of a child caught with one hand in the cookie tin. “Uh. Can’t. Very busy. Right, so, back to work, everyone, and get ready for trivia night!” he said, and retreated quickly into his office. Beelzebub _ actually _smacked her head against the cubicle wall.

Crowley let his gaze gravitate where it always did, to Reception. (He’d developed a crick in his neck from perfecting his watching-Aziraphale-without-looking-like-you’re-watching-him angle.) Aziraphale was typing industriously away on his computer, at what looked from a distance like work, but was probably the draft of the novel he’d told Crowley he was writing but had never let anyone read. With forced casualness, Crowley rose from his chair and strolled the few meters to reception, apparently (he hoped) solely engrossed in choosing which candy to pick from the bowl Aziraphale kept on his desk. (In fact, Crowley hated candy. He had, nevertheless, gained five pounds and two cavities since the beginning of his employment at CPC, because the candy dish proved an excellent excuse for conversation with its owner.) 

“Oh, _ hello, _Crowley,” Aziraphale said, as though this was the best thing that had happened to him all day. 

“‘Lo,” Crowley muttered, stuffing a Werther’s Original into his mouth. “Wild about this trivia night thing, mmm? Are you, erm, are you thinking of going?”

“Oh, _ yes, _I think so,” Aziraphale said warmly. “I’m quite good at trivia, actually. Are you? Going, I mean?”

_ Yes, _ Crowley wanted to say, _ I’d go anywhere you went. _“Eh, not sure, day off sounds nice,” he said, instead.

“I think you—” Aziraphale’s phone rang, and he touched a finger to his lips and held it up to Crowley in a wait-a-minute gesture. “Celestial Paper Company, how may I direct your call?”

Crowley sucked on his candy and tried not to think about the way Aziraphale’s mouth had looked when he’d brought his finger up to it, about the way his lips had pursed, in a way that, if one were a stupid idiot reading signs that almost definitely weren’t there, one could interpret as a kiss. 

“I’ll transfer you, please hold,” Aziraphale said, and dithered over the buttons of his phone for a few seconds before pressing a few of them and gingerly placing the phone back in its cradle. “Anyhow,” he said to Crowley, smiling slightly, “you should come. To trivia night. It’ll be _ fun.” _

Crowley could imagine few things less _ fun _than forced socializing with his co-workers, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ve got anything—” 

He was cut off by Aziraphale’s phone, ringing again. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and smiled a little and picked it up. “Celestial Paper Company, how may I—oh, it’s you again. Oh, it didn’t go through. Oh, I’m _ very _sorry. If you’ll hold for just a moment—”

That was the thing about Aziraphale—he was a truly _ terrible _ receptionist. Crowley couldn’t count on his hands the number of clients he’d lost due to dropped calls and misplaced memos, faxes that had never reached their destination, mail that went mysteriously missing. It was a miracle, really, that he hadn’t been fired _ years _ ago. Crowley suspected this was largely due to Gabriel’s own incompetence, which apparently shielded him from seeing Aziraphale’s in a sort of double-jeopardy effect. Aziraphale seemed profoundly out of place, both in his job and in their office in general. He should have been a million other things, Crowley thought, a used bookstore owner or an absent-minded professor or a kindly librarian. Jobs that didn’t involve being organized, and keeping track of schedules, and understanding technology, none of which were Aziraphale’s forte. The man had apparently been _ born _ sixty-five. He still made notes on _ paper, _for Heaven’s sake.

Aziraphale placed the phone down again, this time with a more triumphant air. “I _ think _that’s done it,” he said, a note of doubt creeping into his voice. “You don’t think they’ve changed the commands again, do you?”

Crowley forbore from replying that “they” hadn’t once changed the phone commands in his whole tenure at CPC. “Could be,” he said neutrally. “Well. I just came by to get my, uh, my candy—” he gestured awkwardly to the lump in the corner of his mouth— “and I s’pose I’ll see you, then. At trivia night.” 

“You’ll see me _ trounce you,” _ Aziraphale said, and sighed deeply as his phone rang again. “Celestial Paper—oh, it didn’t? I’m _ very _sorry, phones must be acting up again…” 

Crowley grabbed a Post-It note from Aziraphale’s desk and scrawled “It’s Transfer then 2 then the extension” on it, then slapped it to Aziraphale’s monitor. 

Aziraphale mouthed “Thank you _ so _ much” silently, then said, “Oh _ yes, _ I see the problem now, this should do the trick,” pressed the buttons decisively, and placed the phone back down again. A few desks away, Hastur’s phone rang. “Oh, it _ worked,” _Aziraphale said, delighted. “Thank you, you’re so clever.”

Crowley made a not-clever-at-all sort of noise and shrugged. “Maybe you won’t quite _ trounce me _at trivia, then,” he said, “if, y’know, they have questions about phone commands—”

Aziraphale reached out towards his computer, delicately un-stuck the Post-It note, crumpled it up, and threw it in Crowley’s face. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said haughtily.

_ “Ow,” _Crowley said, dramatically, despite the complete lack of pain induced by Post-It note assault. “Well, we’ll see tomorrow, then, won’t we?”

“I suppose we will,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley slouched back to his desk, the last few bits of sweetness from the candy sinking into his tongue, leaving behind only the sharp edges that pricked and stung.

* * *

In the end, just about everyone showed up for trivia night. The pub Gabriel had chosen was terrible, of course, with kitschy decor and too-expensive drinks and a clientele composed almost exclusively of businessmen in ill-fitting suits, because, _ really, _ who did trivia night on a _ Friday? _ Friday, Crowley thought, was for getting properly _ drunk, _not for answering questions about who’d won the 1982 World Cup. 

Gabriel had chivvied them all into sitting with their teammates, Sales at one table and Operations at another. Crowley looked around at his table and decided they didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of winning. _ He _ wasn’t much for trivia, himself, and he _ couldn’t _ believe that Hastur and Ligur, the two senior salesmen, were, either. Gabriel had declared himself part of the Sales team, despite the fact that he hadn’t actually _ sold _ anything since his promotion. While Crowley was a little more willing to believe that _ he _might have a heretofore-unseen store of trivia ability, he didn’t hold out much hope. As for Sandalphon, who had started as a junior sales rep at the same time as Crowley and toadied his way up to become what he referred to as “Gabriel’s right-hand man” and Crowley referred to as “Gabriel’s errand boy,” he probably had some trivia knowledge. It just wasn’t likely to be anything you’d be asked about in a bar.

The Operations team, on the other hand; now _ that _ was a team that had a shot. Aziraphale had probably read the encyclopedia cover to cover and retained every detail (except the bits about how to avoid replying-all on an email), Michael and Uriel in Accounting both had maths degrees and certainly _ acted _ like they knew a lot of facts, Dagon, in customer service, was apparently a sports trivia _ fiend, _and Beelzebub—well, Crowley wouldn’t put anything past Beelzebub. Underestimating her was a fool’s game.

“Right,” came an uncertain voice from near the bar, “I’m your host for tonight’s trivia game, I hope you’ve all brought your thinking caps and are ready to have a good time!”

Crowley glanced over to see what sort of sad sack was spending his Friday night _ hosting _ pub trivia, and saw pretty much exactly what he’d been expecting—a tall, skinny young man with messy dark hair and spectacles, who was apparently _ reading off a cue card. _

“My name’s Newt,” the host continued—_ of course it is, _Crowley thought—“and tonight’s game has eight rounds. As a reminder, after each round, the team with the highest score in that round gets a free round of drinks—so you’ve always got a chance! Now, erm, categories for the first round. We’ve got: Shakespeare, James Bond, History Since 1950, and The Book of Revelations. You have two minutes to assign a point value to each category based on your confidence level. And time starts...now.”

Crowley considered the sheet in front of him. “Let’s do James Bond for four points,” he said, grabbing the pencil, “I’m pretty confident—”

Gabriel cut him off. “Yes, yes. Bond at the top, then the recent history category, then Shakespeare, and we’ll do Revelations at the bottom, pretty sure no one knows anything about that.”

“Actually,” Sandalphon started, “I did a paper in school once—” 

“Put it down _ last, _ Crowley,” Gabriel said, shooting Sandalphon a “shut _ up_” look. Sandalphon shut up, and Crowley put Revelations down last.

“Right,” came Newt’s voice over the microphone, “that’s the two minutes up, time for the first question. Category is Shakespeare, question is: In which play can you find the line _ All the world’s a stage, _and, for a bonus point, what character says it?”

“It’s _ As You Like It,” _ Sandalphon said immediately, “put _ As You Like It.” _

Crowley put “_As You Like It.” _

“Anyone know what character?” he asked, looking around.

“Jaques,” said Hastur, and every head at the table swiveled to face him.

Crowley recovered from the shock the fastest. “Uh, right, I’ll put that down, I guess—”

_ “Hang _ on,” Gabriel said, pointing an accusing finger at Hastur’s lap. “You’re not _ allowed _to Google it.”

Hastur quickly shoved the offending cellphone back into his pocket. “Worth a _ try,” _he grumbled.

“Do _ not _ put that down,” Gabriel told Crowley. “We are not going to win by _ cheating.” _

_ We’re not going to win at all, _ Crowley thought, without much bitterness. He glanced over at the other table, where Aziraphale’s blond head was bent over their sheet of paper, writing furiously. After a second, he glanced up—as though he could _ feel _ Crowley’s eyes on him—and smiled, and _ come on, _ that smile _ had _ to be for Crowley, it _ wasn’t _ self-delusion to think so, he was looking literally _ right at him— _

“Hey,” Gabriel said, kicking Crowley under the table, “what’s the name of the love interest in _ Thunderball? _ Since you’re so _ confident.” _

Crowley blinked, and lost eye contact with Aziraphale, and felt suddenly as though he’d been plunged into a bucket of cold water. “Huh?” he said.

“The love interest. In _ Thunderball. _James Bond?” 

“Uh. No idea,” Crowley said, not even lying, because at the moment his head had gone completely empty of everything that wasn’t _ Aziraphale smiled at me, right at _me.

“Useless,” Gabriel muttered, “thought you _ knew _things, went to university and all.”

Crowley had the dim realization, somewhere in the back of his brain, that it was potentially Not Good that Gabriel now thought of him as useless, but couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He did, however, notice when the Sales team came in dead last after the first round. Operations was winning, of course, not just over Sales but over every other team at the pub (to be fair, there were only about four other teams, and two of them had mixed up Malta and Yalta in the History Since 1950 question, so the competition wasn’t exactly _ fierce, _but still). Newt welcomed them up to the bar for their free round of drinks, and Aziraphale stopped on the way back at the Sales table to clink his gin and tonic against Crowley’s barely-touched glass of terrible wine. “See? Trouncing you,” he said, under his breath. 

“Being trounced,” Crowley said, raising his glass to Aziraphale in a kind of salute. 

The Operations team proceeded to win every single one of the next six rounds. Which meant that, in the span of just over two hours, Aziraphale had acquired seven gin and tonics, and was what Crowley would (delightedly) describe as _ sloshed. _ (None of the other Operations team members had taken _ quite _ as full advantage of the free-drink-every-round winner’s perk as Aziraphale had. Crowley was pretty sure Michael had been drinking seltzer from the get-go, and Uriel had talked the bartender into letting her swap three free drinks into one actually top-shelf whiskey. Dagon had simply declined to go up after the first two drinks, electing instead to nurse an Irish coffee that _ had _to be cold by now, and Beelzebub had been yielding half her drinks to Gabriel, a move that had puzzled Crowley at first, but that now, as an inebriated Gabriel botched a question on Queen’s Greatest Hits, made perfect, diabolical sense.)

“Okay,” said Newt, running a hand through his hair and matting it down again, “final round. Uh, we’ve got CPC Operations with a _ commanding _lead, but don’t forget, winners of this round still get free drinks…” He looked nervously at Aziraphale, who was bobbing back and forth and humming something tuneless. “Although the bartender would like me to remind you that he reserves the right to refuse to serve anyone for any reason, thankyouverymuch. Onto our final categories, which are, uh, Elvis Presley, nineteenth-century literature, reptiles, and cricket—”

From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale lurch out of his chair, stumble into a wall, giggle to himself (apparently unhurt), and wend his way unsteadily towards the men’s room. And Crowley’s glass of wine must’ve had more of an impact on him than he’d realized, because without even really thinking about it, he muttered an excuse under his breath and followed.

The bathroom was completely empty except for Aziraphale, who was standing in front of one of the sinks, fully clothed, looking in the mirror.

“You all right?” Crowley asked, softly, letting the door fall closed behind him.

Aziraphale turned to look at him with a widening smile. “I am _ beating _ you,” he said, proudly, “might not know how t’transfer a call but I know my _ Shakespeare,” _ and he took a step towards Crowley, whose brain went into fight-or-flight mode and somehow managed to select _ freeze. _

“Didn’t really doubt you,” he managed to say, “congratulations on the extra day off.”

Aziraphale stepped closer, again; he was close enough to _ touch, _now, and mercifully Crowley’s brain hadn’t figured out how to send signals to his limbs yet, or he’d have reached out and taken Aziraphale’s face in his hands and— 

_ “Look,” _ Aziraphale said, as though he’d suddenly discovered something astoundingly beautiful, “I’ve made sexy Crowley from Sales _ congratulate _me—”

Crowley felt a _ whoosh _ somewhere at the base of his stomach, and he could tell that the sensation was about to spread to all sorts of extremely inconvenient places, starting with, but certainly not limited to, his heart. He finally, _ finally _ managed to get his arms working again, and he was just beginning to lift one hand (solely for the purposes of placing it reassuringly on Aziraphale’s shoulder) when Aziraphale abruptly turned a funny colour, said “Oh _ dear,” _and vomited all over Crowley’s feet. 

Crowley unceremoniously regained complete working control over all his limbs and used it to steer Aziraphale in the direction of the nearest toilet. “Come on,” he said, nonsensically, “that’s all right, just breathe, now.”

Aziraphale vomited again, this time, mercifully, in the toilet. Crowley saw that he had latched on well enough to the bowl and got up to grab a paper towel, which he dampened with warm water. He returned to the stall where Aziraphale was hunched over, gripping the toilet with both hands, and carefully placed one hand on his back.

“I’m _ sorry,” _ Aziraphale said wretchedly, “I’ve probably ruined your _ shoes.” _

He had, and they had been far more expensive than Crowley could afford, but he just made a soft generic comfort-noise and reached up to dab at Aziraphale’s face with the damp paper towel. Aziraphale let out a little sigh, and Crowley jerked away in surprise, but Aziraphale turned his head away from the toilet bowl to face him and said softly, “Oh, please don’t stop, it feels _ nice, _that’s all.”

So Crowley sunk from his awkward crouch into a fully seated position, and resumed patting at Aziraphale’s face, until he was reasonably sure no more vomiting was going to occur.

“I’m _ sorry,” _Aziraphale said, again, once Crowley had risen to throw out the paper towel. 

Crowley just sort of shrugged—_ he’s not going to remember any of this tomorrow anyway, _he thought, half-relieved, half-disappointed—and said, “Happens to all of us,” and then, allowing himself to smile directly at Aziraphale, “and besides, there’s a silver lining.”

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, you’ve won an extra day off, haven’t you? So you’ve got an extra day to recover.”

“That’s right,” Aziraphale said, smiling again, “I have.”

“D’you need a ride home,” Crowley asked, cautiously, “or—”

Aziraphale shook his head, winced, and shook it again, more carefully. “Michael’s got me, she lives nearby. Actually—” he staggered to his feet— “should prob’ly go find her, make sure she hasn’t left.”

“Right,” said Crowley, and he was seized with the impulse to shake hands, or something equally definitive and ridiculous. “See you Tuesday, then, I s’pose.”

“See you Tuesday,” said Aziraphale, and walked carefully out of the bathroom.

Crowley stared after him a minute, then set about the task of de-vomiting his shoes. They hadn’t even been _ waterproofed, _he realized.

All the same. The night hadn’t been half bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is loosely based on the _ Office _ episodes "The Dundies" (American version) and "The Quiz" (UK version). 
> 
> 10,000 points to anyone who gets the _ Crazy Ex-Girlfriend _ reference I threw in there!
> 
> Title is from "At My Most Beautiful" by REM.


	2. Downsizing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to weatheredlaw for beta-reading and encouragement AND making a lovely graphic which you can find [ here](https://weatheredlaw.tumblr.com/post/187635231559/look-aziraphale-said-as-though-hed-suddenly)!

On Tuesday, Crowley came in to find a cheque on his desk, signed by Aziraphale, for an amount that was simultaneously far less than his shoes had cost but also far more than he suspected Aziraphale could easily afford. He glanced automatically up to Reception, but Aziraphale was pointedly looking at his computer screen and typing very quickly. Crowley could take a hint. 

He stuck the cheque in his briefcase (of _ course _ Aziraphale wrote paper cheques) and turned on his computer, glancing over at Reception every few seconds as he did so. Aziraphale steadfastly refused to return his gaze, and Crowley was left wondering exactly how much of Friday night he remembered. The cheque certainly _ seemed _ to indicate that Aziraphale remembered vomiting all over Crowley’s shoes, and the lack of acknowledgement this morning—Aziraphale’s “Good morning!” when Crowley had walked in had been several shades less enthusiastic than usual—might, Crowley worried, be due to day-after regret. If Aziraphale remembered calling him _ sexy Crowley from Sales _in the bathroom that night, and if he now felt embarrassed about it, wanted to take it back—well, that could easily explain the lack of eye contact. 

Crowley couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t devoted a truly absurd amount of time to analyzing that _ sexy, _ and an even more absurd amount of time daydreaming about what might have happened if Aziraphale hadn’t vomited (_nothing, nothing would have happened, he was drunk, you know that). _ But he wouldn’t, he _ couldn’t_, trade that glimmer of hope for his easy friendship with Aziraphale. 

So he opened up Slack, and sent Aziraphale a direct message:

**CROWLEY: **hey...thanks for the cheque. but, totally unnecessary, you know that, right? happens to the best of us. for my money, the best thing to do is that we both pretend the whole thing never happened, yeah? as far as i’m concerned, trivia night ended after round 7.

He hit _ send, _and was rewarded, a second later, by Aziraphale’s head swiveling to face him, pure gratitude written all over his features.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Oh, thank you ever so much, it’s dreadfully embarrassing and I would be frightfully obliged if we could consider that whole evening forgotten.

**CROWLEY: **what whole evening? ;)

**AZIRAPHALE: **Thank you. I mean it.

Crowley looked over at Reception again, and saw Aziraphale smiling at him. Crowley would gladly have committed _ murder _ for that smile. Never mentioning _ sexy Crowley from Sales _ again was a far lower price. (And, to be honest, Crowley wondered whether he’d ever have screwed up the courage to bring it up, anyway. What would he have said? _ Hey, uh, you know how you called me sexy the other night? Funny story, turns out I’m hopelessly in love with you, fancy dinner sometime?) _

**AZIRAPHALE: **If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.

**CROWLEY: **right, i’ll keep that in mind. actually, you know what, i feel like sandalphon needs to be taken down a peg again. may need your help arranging a little something.

**AZIRAPHALE: **I could be tempted…

Crowley grinned at his computer screen. Aziraphale _ loved _messing with Sandalphon, who had an irritating tendency to treat Aziraphale like his personal assistant. (Sandalphon tended to reap his own mis-filed rewards, however, due to Aziraphale’s incompetence.) He exited the Slack chat window and began absentmindedly answering client emails while brainstorming the perfect prank.

He was interrupted by the sound of Gabriel violently slamming his office door closed. Crowley looked up, startled, but saw no signs of what might have caused this.

**AZIRAPHALE: ** What’s going on with _ him? _

**CROWLEY: **no idea. any odd memos run across your desk lately? 

**AZIRAPHALE: **You know I’m not allowed to say. 

**AZIRAPHALE: **But no.

**AZIRAPHALE: **I did transfer a call from head office a few minutes ago, though. Perhaps that?

**CROWLEY: **you don’t think he’s been fired, do you?

**AZIRAPHALE: **Oh, I certainly hope not!

**CROWLEY: **lol what why? he’s a dick to you

**AZIRAPHALE: ** Well, I wouldn’t want anyone to lose their _ job, _regardless of whether or not they’re a…

**CROWLEY: **a dick?

**AZIRAPHALE: **You said it. Not me.

**CROWLEY: **and i’d say it again tbh

**AZIRAPHALE: **You know, he likes you. You should go in and ask him.

**CROWLEY: **hahahah what. he does not like me. 

**AZIRAPHALE: **He does! He thinks you’re cool! He told me so. 

**CROWLEY: **what? huh. well, i mean, as you know i’m very cool, so can’t really blame him

**AZIRAPHALE: **Go ask him what’s going on!

**CROWLEY: **uhhh no way. regardless of how cool gabe may or may not find me, i’m not bothering him when he’s like this

**AZIRAPHALE: **Please???? I’m so curious

**CROWLEY:** four question marks? you really are desperate huh?

He glanced up at Aziraphale, who was looking at him with what could only be described as puppy-dog eyes. Crowley felt his mouth twist into a smile. God, he really was hopeless, wasn’t he?

**CROWLEY: **oh, all right. although i think he’s still mad at me for not being the trivia whiz he hoped for, so if he gets angry again i totally blame you

**AZIRAPHALE: **Oh, thank you!!!!

Crowley stared at those four exclamation points for a second, trying to lock the image of them in his mind. (Given that Crowley’s brain was pretty much just a constant stream of exclamation points whenever he was around Aziraphale, it wasn’t particularly hard.)

**CROWLEY: **All right, here goes.

He rose from his chair and headed for Gabriel’s office, winking at Aziraphale as he passed Reception. Aziraphale’s eyes practically _ twinkled _in response. 

Crowley rapped on Gabriel’s door. 

“Who is it?” came the irritated response, then Gabriel’s head appeared in the window. “Oh. Crowley. Come in.”

Crowley entered, glancing around for any signs of what might’ve caused Gabriel’s door-slam.

“Noticed you seemed a bit upset,” he said, “wondered if there was anything I could do to help.”

Gabriel let out a long-suffering sigh. “There’s nothing _ anyone _can do. We’re in for it, Crowley. This is the end.”

“The end?” Crowley asked, alarmed. “What d’you mean?”

Gabriel looked at him appraisingly. “You promise not to tell anyone?”

“Sure,” Crowley said, lying.

Gabriel beckoned him closer. “I’ve just got a call from head office,” he said, “that there’s going to be _ downsizing. _ I’m going to have to _ fire _someone.”

“That’s awful.”

Gabriel nodded vigorously. “I know! I mean, come on, how is it fair that I should have to go through that? I have to pick someone, and then I have to sit down with them and tell them they’re fired! Do you have any _ idea _how emotionally taxing that’s going to be?”

“I meant more that it’s awful for the person getting fired,” Crowley said, half under his breath.

Gabriel ignored him. “I think Beelzebub should do it. She’s Personnel, isn’t she supposed to be the mean one? I’m supposed to be the fun one.”

“Do you know who it’s going to be yet?” Crowley asked. “I mean, is it going to be based on sales numbers, or…” He was _ pretty _ sure his numbers were better than Hastur’s.

Gabriel looked at him, betrayed. “You sound just like head office,” he said accusingly. “So cold.”

“So, no, then?”

“You can’t measure a person’s value to this office in terms of _ numbers.” _

“Literally thought that was the purpose of numbers,” Crowley said, “but you’re the boss.”

“Being the boss is _ hard,” _Gabriel said, pouting. Crowley noted that it was significantly less effective than Aziraphale’s pout.

“Well,” he said, “if I can be, y’know, helpful at all—”

Gabriel groaned. “Leave me to my torture,” he said, waving a hand at Crowley to dismiss him.

“Right,” said Crowley, “see you later, then,” and beat a quick retreat before Gabriel could decide to fire him just for being there.

“Well?” Aziraphale hissed as Crowley passed his desk.

“Downsizing,” Crowley said, drumming his fingers on the desktop.

“Do you know _ whom?” _Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. “Don’t think he’s decided yet. Knowing him, it won’t be anything _ logical. _Whoever has the bad luck to piss him off first, I’m guessing. So. Consider yourself warned.”

Aziraphale looked nervous. “I know I’m not the most _ efficient _receptionist—” understatement of the century, Crowley thought— “but it’s not as though letting me go would really accomplish anything, would it? I mean, they can’t very well go without anyone at the front desk. Although there are those automated phone systems, now, press one for customer service, and all. But I think my presence gives customers that personal touch. The kind the bigger companies can’t achieve.”

“Course it does,” said Crowley reassuringly. “I’m sure you’re safe. He’ll have to pick someone from one of the departments that’s got multiple staff members. Like Accounting. Or Sales,” he added darkly.

“Oh—” Aziraphale’s features were writ with concern— “oh, I’m certain _ you’re _ safe. You’re a _ brilliant _salesman. They can’t let you go.”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, hope not.”

“Oh, so do I,” said Aziraphale with worry. “I don’t think I could _ bear _it here if you left.”

Crowley’s heart turned over. “Same to you,” he managed to croak out. The speed of his fingers drumming on the reception desk increased.

Aziraphale reached out and placed a hand on his to stop the drumming. “You’re nervous,” he said, surprised. 

Crowley’s whole world narrowed to Aziraphale’s hand on his, the warmth of his fingers on Crowley’s, the softness of his palm. Every nerve told him to _ look down, _to see their hands touching, but he thought if he did that he might literally catch fire, right there in the office. So instead he looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, which was overwhelming enough in itself. “Nah,” he said weakly.

“All right,” said Aziraphale, not sounding convinced. He gave Crowley’s hand a pat and let it go.

Crowley withdrew his hand from the reception desk with the faint idea that he might never wash it again. “Back to work, then,” he said.

Aziraphale nodded in response, and Crowley could feel his gaze on him all the way back to his desk.

He turned the possibility of getting fired over in his mind. On the positive side, he’d finally be free from this Hell of a job, presumably with a decent severance package, able to do something actually interesting with his life. (What precisely that might be, Crowley had no idea. But almost anything had to be better than selling paper.) And if he were no longer employed at CPC, the intra-office no-dating policy would no longer apply, and he’d be able to actually ask out Aziraphale. Buoyed by Friday’s _ sexy _ and today’s _ I couldn’t bear it if you left, _ he let himself wonder whether Aziraphale might actually say _ yes. _ The negatives were slightly more obvious. No income, for one. No immediate prospects for other employment. And, of course, Aziraphale might well say no, might well _ not _want to date him, and then Crowley’d be left both without a job and without the only thing that made that job worth having.

Overall, he decided he _ didn’t _want to get fired. So instead of continuing to browse the Internet for inspiration for his next Sandalphon prank, he picked up the phone and began dialing a customer’s number.

Ligur poked him in the stomach with a pencil.

_ “Ow,” _ said Crowley, and put down the phone. “What was _ that _for?”

“I heard you talking. To Aziraphale,” Ligur said. “About _ downsizing.” _

“And?” Crowley asked with forced nonchalance.

“And it’s happening? There’s going to be downsizing?”

Crowley shook his head. “No, no, no. We were discussing the 2017 Matt Damon film _ Downsizing. _Look it up. It’s not bad.”

Ligur snorted. “Nice try.”

Crowley did his level best to look innocent. “Why would I lie to you, Ligur? Colleague of mine. Brother-in-arms. Dare I say, _ friend?” _

“You better not,” said Ligur, suspiciously. He turned around to whisper something to Hastur, and Crowley silently cursed. The last thing he needed was Gabriel blaming him for the news getting out.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Oh dear, did they overhear us?

**CROWLEY: **unfortunately.

**AZIRAPHALE: **So now it’ll be all over the office by lunch?

**CROWLEY: **see above

**AZIRAPHALE: **And Gabriel will blame you, won’t he?

**CROWLEY: **i mean i do have a glimmer of hope that gabriel’s reasoning skills are weak enough that he’ll fail to realize that i’m the only person who could have leaked it

**CROWLEY: **but it’s really just a glimmer

**AZIRAPHALE: **I’ve got an idea.

**CROWLEY: **uh oh

**CROWLEY: **never want to hear those words from you

**AZIRAPHALE: **Do you want me to try to help, or not?

**CROWLEY: **ofc i do

**AZIRAPHALE: **Then less of the mockery, please. 

Aziraphale rose from his desk and leaned over the cubicle wall to Accounting, sending Crowley a glance as he did so. “Psst!” he said, softly enough that it _ sounded _like he was trying to be quiet but loudly enough that everyone could hear him anyway. “Michael!”

Michael poked her head up over the wall. “What?” she asked, sounding annoyed. But then, Michael always sounded annoyed. 

“I’ve just seen this _ memo _ from _ head office,” _ Aziraphale said, overacting outrageously, “and apparently there’s going to be _ downsizing.” _

“Why’re you telling _ me?” _ Michael asked. “And not your _ pal _in Sales over there?”

Crowley panicked. For some reason, the most logical course of action seemed to be to crawl under his desk. So he did.

“What are you _ doing?” _Hastur asked, kicking at him.

“Dropped a pen,” Crowley said, wishing he owned a pen. 

“Well, I thought you might have more information,” Aziraphale was telling Michael. “About the budget. Being in Accounting, and all.”

Crowley couldn’t see from under his desk, but he imagined Michael shaking her head as she said, “No, I haven’t. Is that all? Some of us need to get back to work. We can’t spend all day _ chatting.” _

“That’s all,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley stayed under his desk for another moment, until Hastur kicked him again. 

“Found that pen yet?”

“Do you know,” said Crowley, crawling out, “I think I left it at home.”

“Oh,” said Hastur, and Crowley resumed his seat. 

He had one new direct message.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Michael’s already told Uriel. So it’ll still be all over the office by lunchtime, but at least Gabriel won’t know it was you.

**CROWLEY: **but won’t he blame you? instead?

**AZIRAPHALE: **Well, I wasn’t told not to spread it around, was I?

Crowley frowned. Despite what he’d said earlier, he was by no means sure Aziraphale’s job was safe. Oh, it wouldn’t have been _ logical _to eliminate the receptionist position, that much was still true, but he really didn’t trust Gabriel to be logical. 

“Wait a minute,” Hastur said. “That doesn’t make any sense. If you _ dropped _your pen—”

* * *

The news about downsizing was indeed all over the office by lunchtime. So when Gabriel finally emerged from his office around two, Sandalphon immediately stood up.

“Is it true?”

“Is _ what _true?”

“The downsizing,” Sandalphon said. “Not that I’m afraid. With my numbers. But some people have been talking.”

Gabriel sighed. “This is exactly what I didn’t want.”

“Then it _ is _true?” Uriel asked. “How many people are being let go?”

Gabriel nodded distractedly. “This is going to _ tank _morale around here.”

“What’s going to _ tank morale,” _Uriel said acidly, “is lack of communication.”

“Where’s Beelzebub?” Gabriel asked. “Why can’t _ she _answer your questions?”

“Annual leave,” Sandalphon said. “Off to Dollywood.” (Crowley had _ so _ many questions.)

Gabriel groaned. “And you all look so _ glum _now. Ugh. Bummer. You know what? I’m going out, and when I come back, I’m going to have a surprise for everyone that’s going to turn your frowns upside down.” He grabbed his coat and darted out the door.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Well, at least he didn’t seem particularly concerned about how the information got out.

Instead of writing back, Crowley just looked up and smiled at Aziraphale in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Aziraphale’s returning smile was much weaker than he would have liked. However, this was _ not _a good time to be fielding comments from Michael about how much time he spent at Reception vs. his own desk, so instead of getting up he just settled in to actually focus on work for once.

Gabriel returned a little over an hour later, carrying an unmarked brown paper bag. He disappeared into his office for a few minutes, and emerged bagless.

“All right,” he said, clapping his hands together, “I have some good news.”

“There _ isn’t _going to be downsizing?” Dagon asked.

Gabriel shook his head. “But I _ can _report that the decision of who to let go has been made very easy for me. I’ve discovered that we have a thief in our midst.”

Crowley’s whole body relaxed. That was okay, then, probably one of the accountants embezzling or something, nothing to worry about— 

“Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, pointing an accusing finger. “You’re fired.”

“What?” said Aziraphale, standing up.

“You’re fired,” said Gabriel again, doing what was presumably meant to be a Donald Trump impression. “For theft.”

“I’ve never stolen _ anything,” _ said Aziraphale, outraged, “you can’t do this, you can’t _ fire me, _ not on a false accusation. That’s ridiculous! I will be—you know what? I will be contacting my union representative, that’s what I’ll do, and together we can look into this _ baseless _ charge. I’ve been at this company seven years! And I’ll call my _ solicitor, _as well—”

“Yes!” cried Crowley, whose mind had, as soon as Gabriel pointed at Aziraphale, experienced a critical systems failure and was only now rebooting. “Yeah, uh, I know a solicitor, actually, a really _ excellent _ solicitor, she’s won _ tons _ of employment law cases, and she will take this company for everything it’s worth. I will have you know,” he continued, standing up and striding over to Reception, “that I have received _ multiple _ comments from clients about the _ outstanding _ job Aziraphale does at reception. I had one of them tell me,” he said, inventing wildly, “that every time he comes into the office and Aziraphale greets him, and, and _ smiles _ at him, he feels _ important _ for once in his life. Like, like everything has _ meaning _all of a sudden.”

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected, or even what reaction he _ wanted, _but he couldn’t make heads or tails of the look on Aziraphale’s face. Surprise, certainly, and a touch of annoyance, and something else Crowley couldn’t identify.

“What are you _ doing?” _asked Aziraphale quietly.

“Trying to help—” Crowley started.

“Well, you’re _ not.” _

There was a moment of silence, during which Crowley yearned for the floor to open up into a swimming pool, _ It’s A Wonderful Life- _style, and accomplish the dual goals of making him disappear and cooling the hot flush of embarrassment that was rapidly overtaking his body. 

“Gotcha!” Gabriel said, loudly.

Aziraphale looked at him blankly.

“Gotcha!” Gabriel said again, as though he weren’t quite sure he had the words right. “Got you so good...it was a prank!” He beamed at Aziraphale, and at the office generally. “Fake firing. Prank! To boost morale!”

“I cannot _ believe,” _ said Aziraphale, softly but with immense disdain, “that you could have _ possibly _thought that might be funny.” His eyes icy cold, he took his coat from the rack and strode out the door without a glance behind him.

Gabriel sighed. “Geez, he really doesn’t have any sense of humour, does he? Oh! Hang on, surprise part two.” He ducked into his office and came back out with the paper bag. “Look! Fudge!” He offered the bag to Crowley.

Crowley pushed it away. “I have to—” he said, quietly, and then, heart racing, headed out the door after Aziraphale, not bothering to finish the sentence.

He caught up to him in the car park. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called. Aziraphale whirled to face him. “I’m sorry if I, uh, crossed a line back there, I didn’t mean—”

“What did you think you were _ doing?” _

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said again, “I panicked, I was just trying to help—”

“Well, you _ didn’t _.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—” Crowley exhaled. “Look, you’re the only decent thing about this place, I couldn’t deal with the thought of you getting fired.”

Aziraphale’s face softened the slightest bit. “You know I—” He broke off, and shook his head, continuing in a different tone. “You didn’t have to make an _ exhibition _of yourself like that. As though I weren’t capable of handling the situation on my own.”

“No, of course,” Crowley said, “it’s not that, I only wanted to, to—”

“To protect me? That’s not your _ job,” _ Aziraphale said. “I’m not your _ boyfriend, _Crowley.”

Crowley recoiled, feeling as though he’d just been hit by some particularly heavy object. “No,” he managed to say. “I—uh—no.”

And he must have looked remarkably pathetic, standing there stammering, because Aziraphale’s face softened again, no anger or annoyance left, only that expression Crowley couldn’t quite place. He said, almost too faintly to hear, so quietly that Crowley wondered whether it might only be his imagination, “I don’t mean to imply that I didn’t appreciate it. You, coming to my defense. It was very, well..._Anyway_, what I mean to say is, I _ am _grateful. I just...you heard what Michael said, earlier, and after Friday, when I made such a fool of myself, I can’t...I can’t be seen as anyone’s accessory.” He sighed. “Gabriel’s the one I’m really angry with, you know. Not you.”

Crowley shook his head. “No, I...I was out of line. I’m sorry. Really.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’d better get back up, then.” He hovered a second in implicit invitation.

Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be right up,” he said.

He hadn’t meant it as retribution—the opposite, in fact. He’d wanted to demonstrate just how little he viewed Aziraphale as an accessory, but from the injured expression on Aziraphale’s face, it seemed he’d messed up _ again. _

Crowley stayed in the car park, alone, for another five minutes or so, walking in circles and trying not to think.

When he came back upstairs, Gabriel had withdrawn into his office, and everyone appeared to be working (or not working) as usual. 

Crowley went directly to his briefcase and pulled out the cheque. He turned towards Reception, making direct eye contact with Aziraphale, and, holding out the cheque so that he could see, tore it up.

**CROWLEY: **are we even now?

**AZIRAPHALE: **We’re even. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is loosely based on the _Office_ episodes "Downsizing" (UK version) and "The Fight" (US version).


	3. Off the Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thanks to weatheredlaw for beta-reading!

It had been three weeks, now, since the news about downsizing had leaked, and still no one had been fired. Beelzebub had returned from vacation and immediately gone into damage-control mode, assuring everyone that any dismissal decisions would be made based on objective criteria and would be communicated privately and compassionately. (Given that Gabriel was apparently still responsible for said communication, Crowley had grave doubts about this.)

For some reason, everyone interpreted “objective criteria” as “sales numbers,” despite Beelzebub’s refusal to confirm or deny anything. Crowley had to admit, it made sense. After all, how would anyone have objectively measured, say, Dagon’s customer service performance? (There were evaluation surveys, but the only people who ever filled _ those _out were the ones annoyed that they hadn’t gotten free product out of their call.)

So the sales team, which had never been the most collegial group in the first place, was now taken over by all the petty sniping, undermining, and one-upsmanship that Crowley was most desperate to avoid. He tried to keep his head down and work, at first. Started spending less time reading threads on r/AmITheAsshole and recaps of American reality shows (this season of 90 Day Fiance was apparently _ wild) _and more time actually following up with clients and closing sales. 

This state of affairs could only last so long, however, and after Sandalphon made yet another pointed comment about how _ his _sales numbers were unimpeachable, and Ligur poached a client, and Hastur completely threw off Crowley’s extremely scientific non-existent filing system looking for an order form, Crowley snapped. 

He grabbed a random sheet of paper and headed up to Reception. “Aziraphale,” he said, loudly enough for the rest of the sales team to hear, “be an angel and photocopy this for me, would you?”

Aziraphale gave him a confused look. “You _ never _ask me to photocopy things for you.”

This was true. In the first year of his employment at CPC, photocopy requests had been Crowley’s go-to excuse for trips to Reception. And while Aziraphale had always been willing to oblige, he’d also always returned from the copier with everything inexplicably printed out on 11x17 paper, and the original document having somehow vanished entirely. Crowley had switched to just doing his own copying, since by then he and Aziraphale were friends anyway and the excuse wasn’t really needed.

“You’re right,” Crowley said loudly, again for Sales’ benefit, “why don’t you just show me how to do it myself?” He jerked his head meaningfully in the direction of the copy corner. 

Aziraphale caught on. “Oh yes, quite right,” he said, getting up from his desk. Crowley shot him a you-got-it wink, and together they walked over to the copier. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said, once they were safely out of earshot of everyone else. “I’d have Slacked you, but I caught Hastur reading over my shoulder again this morning. Didn’t want to risk it.”

“That’s all right,” said Aziraphale, “here, why don’t I make it look—” He took a step towards the copier, brushing up against Crowley as he did so. The copy corner, which had seemed to be a completely reasonable size for two people just seconds ago, suddenly felt scandalously cramped. Crowley took a breath, and instantly regretted it, because _ had Aziraphale changed shampoo, _ or _ what, _ he didn’t know, all he knew was that his hair smelt _ wonderful, _and Crowley wanted to lean down and bury his nose in it and then— 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, closing the copier lid, “what’s going on?”

Crowley took a step back out of self-preservation. “Right,” he said, forcing his thoughts back on track, “my colleagues over there are driving me absolutely batshit insane, and I could use a bit of help getting back at them.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Oh! What did you have in mind?” 

Crowley smirked. “Well. I have one we can do now and one that’ll take a little while, which do you want to hear?”

“Well, _ both,” _ Aziraphale said. “I’m sure they’re both _ splendid.” _

“Dunno about that,” Crowley said, “but all right. First one’s pretty straightforward, I was thinking we could get a wireless mouse, then you distract Hastur while I plug it into his computer and we watch him go mad trying to figure out why all his programs keep closing.”

“I like it,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully, _ “especially _if while you’re in there you also change his email signature to something truly terrible.”

“See?” Crowley said. “This is why I need you. Those little touches that elevate things from good to _ brilliant.” _

“It’s nice to be needed,” Aziraphale said, so sincerely that Crowley staggered backwards and into the copier, hitting several buttons at once. An alarming number of things went _ beep. _

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, “are you all right?”

_ “I _am,” Crowley said, “the copier I’m not so sure of.”

The machine was now spitting out copies of whatever the random document was that he’d given to Aziraphale, and was continuing to give off inexplicable noises. 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, “let me see,” and peered at the screen. “Oh, it says to open tray one, do you think I ought to?”

“I don’t _ think _there’s a way for you to make it worse,” Crowley said doubtfully.

“Well, I’ll follow the directions, how difficult can it be?” Aziraphale said, opening Tray One. The copier abruptly ceased all operations.

“See?” Aziraphale said, smugly. “It worked.”

_ “Very _good,” Crowley said, sarcastically. “You’re a copy-whisperer.”

Aziraphale just beamed. “Now, let’s see, what next?” He looked down at the screen again and started opening more trays—Crowley hadn’t realized copiers _ had _ so many trays _ — _and closing them again. “Anyway. Tell me the other idea. The one that’ll take a while.”

“Right,” Crowley said, “I read about this one online. What you do is, you buy some old keys, not ones that open anything in particular, just random keys. _ Lots _of keys. And you mix ‘em up, and put them on keychains, and we’ll put Sandalphon’s phone number on all the keychains, and then leave them all around town.”

Aziraphale looked up from Tray 57, or whatever it was, to smile at him. “And people will find them, I suppose, and call the number, and—_ oh, _ he’ll _ have _to pick up, won’t he? Because he doesn’t know they’re not clients.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said, “and have you ever known Sandalphon to ignore a call from a client?” 

Aziraphale straightened, apparently having opened and closed every possible tray on the copier, and said, with mock thoughtfulness, “Why, no, I believe I haven’t. In _ fact, _ if I recall correctly, he was _ boasting _rather openly the other day about that very fact.”

Crowley grinned. “Exactly. So. You ready to help?”

“Oh, _ yes,” _Aziraphale said. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about where to acquire a wireless mouse, though.”

“No,” said Crowley, “I didn’t really think you would.”

Aziraphale looked at him suspiciously. “What _ precisely _are you implying about my competence in the realm of office supplies?”

“Nothing!” Crowley said, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of innocence. “Nothing at all. However, it is now—” he checked his watch— “ten past eleven. I’ll be taking my lunch break at twelve-thirty—”

“As you do _ every _day,” Aziraphale said, fondly, and Crowley’s heart swelled.

“As I do every day,” he conceded, “and instead of taking my usual sandwich to the lunchroom, and instead of listening to your unnecessarily judgemental comments on it—” 

_ “Look,” _ Aziraphale said, “deli meat and mayonnaise on white bread is not only nutritionally dubious but a culinary _ travesty—” _

“And _ instead _of listening to your rant,” Crowley continued, “I believe I’ll spend my break on a quick trip to Device’s Office Supplies. Where I might, possibly, find a wireless mouse.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “then perhaps _ I _ could _ also _ be persuaded to spend my lunch break at Device’s Office Supplies. After all, I’ve just been informed that my input on certain people’s food choices is _ unwelcome.” _

“You’re never _ unwelcome,” _ Crowley said, without thinking. His brain caught up to his mouth a moment later, and cringed. “What I mean to say is,” he corrected himself, “please do come along. To Device’s. If you’d like.” _ If it’s not too much to ask, if you don’t mind being seen leaving work with me, if it won’t upset this equilibrium we have right now… _

“I think that sounds _ delightful,” _Aziraphale said, “just the thing I need, a little jaunt out of the office.”

“Right,” said Crowley, “twelve-thirty, then?”

“Twelve-thirty,” Aziraphale said. He gathered the sheets of paper that the copier had produced during its meltdown, and offered them to Crowley. “Do you want these?”

“Sure,” Crowley said, and took them, despite having no idea what he would possibly do with fifteen copies of—he glanced at the document—an expense report from 2016. (God, he really needed to _ organize _better.)

Aziraphale gestured towards the main office. “After you,” he said, stepping backward to let Crowley go first. 

“Thank you,” Crowley said, and left the copy corner for his desk.

“Where’ve _ you _been?” asked Ligur as Crowley sat down.

“Had to make some copies,” Crowley said, waving the papers in Ligur’s general direction.

Ligur snatched one. “What is this? Why’re you copying an expense report?”

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Crowley asked innocently. “We’re all supposed to archive our expense reports from the last four years. For financial reasons. It’s to do with the downsizing, I think.”

“No one asked _ me _to do that,” Ligur said, frowning.

“Oh,” Crowley said, “well, forget I said anything, then.”

“What d’you think it _ means?” _Ligur asked. “That they didn’t ask me to do it?”

Crowley shrugged. “Search me.”

“Why don’t they need my expense reports?” Ligur asked again, this time more loudly. Crowley glanced up towards Reception, where Aziraphale had resumed his seat and was surreptitiously watching them, visibly restraining himself from giggling. Crowley shot him a wink.

“Well,” Crowley said, carefully, “I didn’t want to _ say _ this, but _ if _ they were planning to let you go it’s just _ possible _that they wouldn’t need an archive of your spending….” 

Ligur scowled at him. “They just forgot to tell me. That’s all. Accounting’ll clear it up.”

“Why don’t you go ask them now?” Crowley suggested. 

“Yeah,” Ligur said, “maybe I will.” He headed off to Accounting, and Crowley, satisfied, cracked his back and stretched his hands behind his head.

**AZIRAPHALE: **I do wish you wouldn’t do that, it’s got to be terribly hard on your spine. 

**CROWLEY: **oh really? huh. guess i’d better stop then

**AZIRAPHALE: **I’d feel ever so much better if you did.

**CROWLEY: **well

**CROWLEY: **anything for you ;)

* * *

Device’s Office Supplies was located on the opposite side of the industrial park from CPC. Crowley’s initial instinct was to drive—it wasn’t exactly a scenic walk—but as he approached the car park with Aziraphale, he suddenly became overwhelmingly nervous about the state of his car. This was ridiculous—Crowley took better care of his car than most people took of their children—but he couldn’t stop the image of Aziraphale climbing into the passenger seat and seeing an empty takeaway box, or a used tissue, and deciding Crowley was a slob.

“It’s actually rather nice out,” he said, “y’know, for November. Why don’t we walk over?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, but only said, “If you like.”

“Great,” said Crowley, and then, babbling, “should be good exercise, get the blood pumping, and all.”

Aziraphale looked like he was holding back a laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t want to deny you your exercise.”

“Don’t get enough of it, do I?” Crowley asked, hoping that Aziraphale would launch into one of his speeches about Crowley’s unhealthy diet, or the fact that he hadn’t been to the doctor in three years, both to get the conversation off on another tack and because, honestly, Crowley quite liked it when Aziraphale scolded him. It meant something, he thought, to have another person care about you enough to want you to be better.

But instead, Aziraphale said, “Yes, I imagine you don’t, what with the way you slouch around everywhere. You ought to take up running, I think. You’ve got the physique for it.”

Crowley became acutely aware of his legs, like they’d been running on automatic and now switched to manual and he had to re-learn what all of the muscles did. _ How _ was he supposed to walk all the way across the industrial park knowing that Aziraphale was apparently noticing his _ physique? _

He shoved his hands in his pockets and made a noncommittal noise. 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, hurriedly, almost as though he’d been made as uncomfortable as Crowley, “walking sounds lovely.”

Crowley nodded and strode forward with more purpose than usual.

“So,” Aziraphale said—all right, he was _ definitely _just as uncomfortable as Crowley—“what do you think we ought to change Hastur’s email signature to?”

Crowley grinned. “I was sort of just waiting for inspiration to strike. In the moment.”

“Oh, _ no,” _Aziraphale said. “You’ll only end up with something mediocre that way. You’ve got to maximize this opportunity.” He said this so seriously that Crowley glanced over to check his expression. Aziraphale’s mouth was straight, but his eyes fairly gleamed with mischief.

“Well,” Crowley said, “what d’you think of _ Hastur, Duke of Poo?” _

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “It has a pleasing assonance,” he admitted, “but a feces joke is rather juvenile.”

“Right,” said Crowley, “wouldn’t want to ruin this extremely mature venture with something _ juvenile.” _

“All I mean is that surely you can think of something more clever than that.”

“_Hastur, Poo Lord Supreme?” _

“All right, that’s _ worse.” _

“Hmmm,” Crowley said, pretending to think very deeply. “_Hastur, Lord Poo Poo Head?” _

_ “Really, _ Crowley, _ must _ these all revolve around _ excretion?” _Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look and caught sight of Crowley’s shit-eating (or, well, in this case, shit-nickname-creating) grin. “Oh, I see, you’re pulling my leg.”

“A bit,” Crowley admitted, “though, come on, you don’t like _ Poo Lord Supreme?” _

“Well,” Aziraphale hedged, “a _ little.” _

As they entered the shop, a small bell chimed, and the middle-aged woman behind the counter called out in a monotone, “Welcome to Device’s, let me know if I can help you find anything.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale called back. “Just browsing for now.”

Crowley glanced at him, puzzled. “We’re not browsing. We’re here for the wireless mouse.”

“Oh—” Aziraphale looked down at the linoleum— “well, I thought as we’re here, it might be fun to have a look around.”

“You think it’d be _ fun,” _ Crowley asked, incredulously, “to look around _ Device’s Office Supplies.” _

“Yes, never mind, it’s very silly,” Aziraphale said, heading down a random aisle. “Mouses...mice?...let’s see…”

“Wait,” Crowley said, “no, ‘s not silly.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him. “Yes it _ is,” _he said, laughing a little bit, “it’s silly, I just like to look at all the different types of notebooks.”

“That’s not silly,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s elbow and steering him towards the notebook section, “it’s very _ you, _it’s not silly at all.”

“I just,” Aziraphale said, allowing himself to be led, “well, you know I write.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, letting go of Aziraphale’s elbow (with not a little reluctance) as they reached the notebooks. “You’ve got that novel you won’t let me see.”

“It’s not _ finished _ yet,” said Aziraphale, running a finger down the spine of a Moleskine, “and anyway I don’t know if you’d even _ like _it.”

“Of _ course _ I’ll like it,” Crowley said, offended, _ “you _wrote it.”

Aziraphale turned his face away from the notebooks to smile at him. “That’s very kind,” he said, softly. “All I meant is I don’t know whether it’s your type of book, let alone whether or not it’s any good.”

“It’ll be my type of book,” Crowley said, with conviction. When Aziraphale had first mentioned his novel, cautiously, several years ago, Crowley had been assailed by the worry that his writing might be _ bad, _ and that if he ever read it and didn’t like it that he’d never be able to see Aziraphale the same way again. As time had gone on, however, Crowley’s doubts had given way to the dual assurance that, one, Aziraphale _ was _a good writer, and, two, that Crowley would love anything he wrote regardless.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve been writing on the computer—”

“While you’re supposed to be working,” Crowley said fondly.

“While I’m _ taking a well-deserved break _from working,” Aziraphale said, “but. When I was younger, I used to write all my stories in notebooks. I still have some of them, I think, hiding in some dusty corner in my house. And, well, I still like writing on paper. Taking notes, jotting things down. So. Notebooks.”

“Notebooks,” Crowley echoed. 

Aziraphale’s hand came to rest on a small, spiral-bound notebook, with a cover made of some soft-looking material. “This one, I think,” he said, lifting it off the shelf. “Now. Wireless mouse.”

“You sure you don’t want to look around a little more?” Crowley asked. _ With me? _

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s past one,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “We’ll have to scamper a bit to get back on time, as is.”

“All right,” Crowley said, “let’s _ scamper, _then.” He led the way towards the electronics aisle, where there were a couple of different wireless mice to choose from.

“What do you think the difference is?” Aziraphale asked, peering at the boxes.

“The difference,” Crowley said, picking one of them up, “is that this one is eight pounds, and that one—” he gestured at the box Aziraphale was looking at— “is twelve, and we’re buying the eight-pound one.”

“Shouldn’t we check the, I don’t know, the _ specs?” _

“It’s a _ mouse,” _ Crowley said, heading for the checkout, “the only _ spec _ is _ does it click.” _

“Well, _ all right,” _said Aziraphale, hurrying behind him.

“Here,” Crowley said, walking up to the counter, “g’me that.” He reached for the notebook in Aziraphale’s hands.

_ “Why?” _Aziraphale asked, holding it away.

_ “Because,” _ Crowley said, gently tugging at the notebook, “I want to _ buy _it.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Aziraphale said, but his grip on the notebook loosened enough for Crowley to take it.

“It’s a thank you, that’s all,” Crowley said, handing his items to the cashier. “For helping me get back at Hastur. And the rest of ‘em. That Sandalphon prank’s going to take a bit of time, y’know, you’re not getting this for _ free.” _He shoved his credit card into the reader.

“Very well, then,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley took the bag and receipt from the cashier, and they left. “Thank you very much, have a lovely day,” he added, beaming at the woman. “And thank _ you,” _he said, turning back to Crowley. “For the notebook.”

“Welcome,” Crowley said, and then, more quietly, “somethin’ to remember me by, that’s all.”

They got back to the office around one-twenty, just enough time for Crowley to wolf down his sandwich before heading back to work. Aziraphale elected to eat at his desk while working, instead of, as he put it, _ committing a culinary felony. _Crowley glanced up from his computer to see Aziraphale methodically working his way through a carefully-arranged bento box, inspecting each item before he ate it and taking deep breaths in between bites, and couldn’t help but smile. 

They’d agreed that Operation Distract Hastur was best timed for two-thirty, when Hastur took his daily totally-not-playing-Candy-Crush-on-his-phone bathroom break. As he got up from his desk, Crowley sent Aziraphale their extremely subtle signal (saying “Bye, Hastur!” at a deafening volume), and Aziraphale got in position to intercept Hastur, should he come out of the bathroom before Crowley finished.

Sandalphon and Ligur were both out on client calls, thankfully, so no one was watching the Sales area as Crowley scooted his chair over to Hastur’s desk and unlocked his computer. (His password was _ password, _ and was also on a sticky note attached to his computer, presumably in case Hastur found himself unable to remember _ password.) _

Crowley plugged the transmitter for the wireless mouse into the USB port and quickly installed the software that would allow it to run. The mouse itself was back on Aziraphale’s desk, safely hidden from view by the reception counter. Crowley gave Aziraphale a thumbs-up signal, and watched as he began to move the cursor around Hastur’s screen. Crowley nodded in affirmation, then opened Hastur’s email. After some debate, they’d decided on “Hastur, King of Poo Mountain,” which Aziraphale allowed despite its, as he said, _ puerility, _ on the grounds that it was a Peer Gynt reference. (Crowley agreed and immediately Googled _ Peer Gynt.) _

Crowley quickly changed the email signature, set Hastur’s default font to Comic Sans for good measure, and logged out of the computer just as Hastur returned from the bathroom.

_ Now, _ Crowley thought, _ the fun begins. _

Unfortunately, from his position at Reception, Aziraphale couldn’t see Hastur’s computer screen at an angle that would allow him to actually do anything significant. However, just moving the cursor around and clicking randomly seemed to prove sufficient for their purposes, as Hastur began giving his trackpad odd looks and swearing under his breath.

“Computer trouble?” Crowley asked, in tones of faux concern.

“Yeah,” Hastur said, scowling, “stupid _ mouse _ won’t _ work—” _

“Let me try?” Crowley asked, winking at Aziraphale.

Hastur reluctantly moved aside. Crowley ran his fingers over the trackpad a few times, opening and closing programs with no difficulty. “Seems fine to me,” he said, shrugging and returning to his own desk.

Hastur frowned. “It was acting up a second ago—” He tried to scroll down the screen as Crowley had just done. The cursor immediately went mad again. Hastur swore, more loudly this time, and smacked the side of the computer. “It’s like it _ hates _me,” he said.

“Maybe,” agreed Crowley, “or maybe it’s a sign.”

“A sign of_ what?” _Hastur asked suspiciously. 

Crowley shrugged. “If they’re disabling your computer privileges for some reason…”

“Well, why’s it working for you and not for me? You think I’m getting let go?”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise.

“_Do _you?”

“How’ve your sales numbers been?” Crowley asked instead.

Hastur groaned. “It’s been a rough quarter,” he said, defensively, “for everyone.”

“Sure it has,” Crowley said. “Sure it has.”

On Hastur’s computer screen, the mouse wiggled around in a shape that bore a strong resemblance to a heart.

* * *

It took Crowley a great deal more time, effort, and money than he was willing to acknowledge to acquire enough random keys for the Sandalphon prank. By the Monday after their trip to Device's, though, he’d obtained the necessary items. 

**CROWLEY: **doing anything after work today?

**AZIRAPHALE: **Nothing in particular, why?

**CROWLEY: **any interest in staying late to help me label 50 sets of keys with sandalphon’s mobile number?

**AZIRAPHALE: **A great deal of interest, in fact.

**CROWLEY: **excellent

**CROWLEY: **get your hand muscles ready

**AZIRAPHALE: **What???

**CROWLEY: **for writing

**CROWLEY: **what did you think i meant???

**AZIRAPHALE: **Nothing!

**CROWLEY: **omg

**CROWLEY: **you have a filthy mind???

**CROWLEY: **this is not appropriate in a work environment

**AZIRAPHALE: **I’m terribly sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, it truly was not my intention.

**CROWLEY: **omg i’m kidding

**AZIRAPHALE: **So am I.

**CROWLEY: **no you’re not

**CROWLEY: **you’re really sorry aren’t you

**CROWLEY: **awwwwwww

**AZIRAPHALE: **Shut up.

**CROWLEY: ***zipped lips emoji*

At 5:45, Gabriel stopped by Crowley’s desk on his way out. “Leaving soon?’

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, just got to finish up a few things. Aziraphale said he’d lock up for me.”

“All right,” Gabriel said, and gave him two thumbs up. “Great hustle!”

Behind Gabriel’s back, Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically at Aziraphale.

_ “Great hustle!” _he said, sarcastically, as soon as Gabriel was out the door. “Ugh. Can we prank him next?”

“I _ don’t _think that’s wise,” Aziraphale said. “Now. Where are those keys?”

Crowley grabbed a plastic bag from his briefcase and thunked it down on his desk. “Behold.”

Aziraphale came out from behind Reception. _ “Very _ nice,” he said, picking up one of the keys. “Wherever did you _ get _all of these?”

Crowley shrugged. “Happened to be a car boot sale in my neighborhood, got lucky.” (It had actually been more like seven or eight sales, in a variety of neighborhoods, none of which were particularly near Crowley’s, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know that.)

“Well, excellent,” Aziraphale said, “and you’ve got tags, too, I see.”

“Yup,” said Crowley.

_ “Nicely _ done,” Aziraphale said, “this is really going to be _ something.” _

“Sandalphon deserves it,” Crowley said, “heard him telling you to schedule a meeting for him the other day, like you work for _ him, _or something.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “I _ do _ find that irritating.” He took a stack of tags from the bag and sat down at Hastur’s desk, next to Crowley, to begin writing on them. “Sometimes,” he continued, taking out a pen—Aziraphale never used the ordinary office pens, he brought in his own— “this is bad, really, but sometimes I even resent it when Gabriel asks me to schedule meetings for him. Even though that _ is _my job.”

“Course you do,” Crowley said, uncapping his own pen and starting to write, “Gabriel’s a prick.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s not to do with _ him. _ It’s just...well, this sounds silly, I suppose, but it’s not like I thought I’d be a receptionist. As a child. Or...well, or until I _ became _a receptionist.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Crowley said, “don’t think anyone does. I certainly didn’t think I was going to end up in _ Sales.” _

“It’s worse than that,” Aziraphale said, looking down at the tag he was writing on instead of at Crowley, “it’s that...well, this is terrible, really, but I feel like I’m too _ clever _to be a receptionist.”

“You _ are,” _Crowley said.

“But administrative work isn’t inherently less _ valuable,” _ Aziraphale protested, “it’s not as though receptionists _ can’t _ be clever, I don’t mean to think that. But I _ do _think it.”

“Look,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked up from the tag, “look, you’re worth ten of Gabriel. Twenty. In intelligence, skill, being a decent human being…So of course you feel like you’re better than doing his errands, because you _ are.” _

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m really not very good at my job, am I?”

“No,” Crowley admitted, “well, not at some parts of it, but you’re _ so _ clever, Aziraphale, you really are, I can tell, Gabriel can tell, everyone in this _ office _ can tell. Of _ course _you feel like you’re too good for, I don’t know, making copies and answering phones.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “I do appreciate that.” He placed the tag he’d been writing on down in a stack. “This feels rather _ naughty, _I must say.”

Crowley laughed. “Well, yeah, for you I’d bet it _ would _be.”

“What’s _ that _supposed to mean?”

“Come on,” Crowley said, “like you’ve ever done anything _ bad.” _

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, primly, “when I was younger I was quite the delinquent.”

Crowley snorted. “What’d you do, con the library so that you didn’t have to pay a late fee, or something?”

_ “No,” _ Aziraphale said, “I wouldn’t do _ that, _ libraries are a public good and I wouldn’t want to _ con _them. No, I, er, I shoplifted.”

“You _ what?” _

“I shoplifted. Not anything _ major, _just, packs of gum, boxes of hair dye, that sort of thing.”

_ “Hair dye?” _

“Yes, I used to dye my hair _ black, _as a matter of fact.”

“I _ cannot _picture that.”

“Well, I _ do _have some photographic evidence, I’ll have to see if I can find it for you.”

_ “Please _do.”

“Yes, well, anyway, I got caught, once, and brought into the police station, and interrogated. They let me go, eventually, not enough evidence. But I, well, I came back to the station, later that night, with some of my friends, and we spray-painted a rude word on the wall.”

“Shoplifting _ and _ vandalism,” Crowley said. “I’m impressed.” What he _ was, _was realizing that it had, in fact, been possible for him to become more attracted to Aziraphale than he’d already been. It was more than a little thrilling, and not precisely comfortable.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said. “One grows out of such things.”

“How did I not _ know _this about you?”

“I don’t exactly go around _ advertising _ it,” Aziraphale said. “In fact, I don’t know that I’ve told _ anyone _about that before.”

Crowley, who had been staring at Aziraphale in admiration and awe, looked down at the pile of keys in front of him, in an attempt to quell his overwhelming impulse to throw himself over the desk and kiss him.

Aziraphale seemed to feel something, too, the change in mood, the increase in tension, _ something, _because he coughed a little, and said, “Do you know, I’m rather hungry.”

“Well,” Crowley said, desperately grateful for the change of subject, “I’ve got white bread and deli meat, but…”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I _ don’t _think so, my dear.”

Crowley tried very hard to brush past the _ my dear _and failed miserably. “Urm,” he said, nonsensically, “walrp.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Are you having a stroke?” 

“No,” Crowley said—_ my dear, _ what did that _ mean— _“just. Uh. Lost my train of thought. But. If you’re too good for deli meat—”

_ “Everybody _is too good for deli meat—”

“Then we could, I dunno, go for a takeaway. If you like. Bring it back here. Finish up.” 

“That sounds _ perfect,” _said Aziraphale. 

So they got their coats, and, for the second time in two weeks (not that Crowley was counting, or anything), left the office together. 

The Indian takeaway next door was still open, thankfully (the industrial park, as a rule, more-or-less shut down after five o’clock), and they were the only customers in the place.

“So, you like yours spicy, then?” Crowley asked, as they walked back, nodding to Aziraphale’s box.

_ “Yes,” _ Aziraphale said, happily, “it’s very _ stimulating, _I think, really. Makes you feel alive.”

Looking at Aziraphale, at his cheeks flushed pink from the autumn air, at the hungry smile on his lips as he looked down at the takeaway box, Crowley agreed.

When they got back into the office, Crowley started to put his food down on his desk, but Aziraphale stopped him. 

“It’s not very late yet,” he said, “we’re almost done with the keys. We may as well eat dinner properly.”

“What d’you mean by that?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, leading the way into the darkened break room and flicking on the light, “not while working, for one. Not at your _ desk.” _

“All right,” Crowley agreed, “as you like.”

Aziraphale beamed. “I’ll just get us some proper _ napkins,” _he said, and bustled off to the kitchen. 

Crowley stared after him, wondering what _ exactly _was happening here. They’d eaten together before, in this very break room, hundreds of times. But never like this: never alone, never at night, never with takeaway they’d bought together. 

Aziraphale returned with the napkins, and with real, non-plastic cutlery. “Here,” he said, handing a set to Crowley and sitting down, _ “Bon appetit.” _

Crowley grinned. _ “Bon appetit,” _he echoed, and opened the takeaway box.

It wasn’t a date. He knew that. Aziraphale _ certainly _ knew that. Having dinner together was something _ friends _ did, all the time. And they _ were _friends. He just happened to very much want to kiss this particular friend silly, that was all. 

Still, for the next hour or so, Crowley let himself pretend. And if it _had _been a date, he thought, driving home that night, if their circumstances had been totally different, if, if, if—if all of that, then, he’d have to say, it hadn’t gone badly at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is based on, uh, a LOT of different episodes. Chiefly elements from "The Client" and "Michael's Birthday," but there's a bit from "Email Surveillance" in there as well and a wee flavor of "Conflict Resolution." (All US edition)
> 
> I feel as though this is a safe space where I can admit that every example of Aziraphale being Bad at Reception is something I have done IRL at my job...
> 
> Also, shout-out to the askreddit thread that was my source for the wireless mouse and keys-with-phone-number pranks!


	4. Christmas Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update! I had some writing to do for my class. I don't think it'll be this big of a gap again!

If there was one thing Crowley had come to learn in the last five years, it was that Gabriel took Christmas _ very _ seriously. As soon as December hit, the office began to fill up with tinsel, and wreaths, and even mistletoe (for about two hours, before Beelzebub took it down on the grounds that kissing was _ not _ an appropriate office activity and _ really, _ did Gabriel _ want _ them to get sued?). Crowley, who was distinctly _ not _a big Christmas person, gritted his teeth, and picked pine needles out of his coffee, and thanked the God he didn’t really believe in that at least there weren’t carols playing over the PA system. 

“Secret Santa!” Gabriel said, waving a box in Crowley’s face. “Pick your name, you know the drill.”

Crowley sighed. Secret Santa, in his opinion, was nothing more or less than a waste of time and money. His first year at CPC, he’d actually attempted to put some effort into choosing a gift for his recipient (he still saw Dagon wearing the hat sometimes), only to end up receiving a half-empty bag of dog food from Ligur. (Crowley did not own a dog. He had never owned a dog.) After that, he’d skated by with just picking up a generic gift card, which people had seemed to appreciate, but which Gabriel had now banned, because apparently that “wasn’t in the spirit of Secret Santa.”

Last year, Crowley’d gotten Hastur a packet of acne remover wipes. He’d received a talking-to from Beelzebub on the subject of _ respect for others _ shortly afterwards, but at least it’d been _ funny. _

“Come on,” said Gabriel, shaking the box insistently. “Pick a name!”

Crowley sighed, and reached into the box, and grabbed a slip of paper. 

“All _ right,” _ Gabriel said, moving on to Sandalphon, “don’t forget, party’s in two weeks, fifteen-pound limit, and _ don’t _tell anyone who you’ve got, that ruins the fun!”

Crowley glanced absentmindedly at the paper, trying to decide whether or not movie tickets counted as a gift card.

He had Aziraphale.

Now, the odds of this—Crowley wasn’t much for maths, but even he could figure this one—the odds of this couldn’t actually be _ that _ low, given the limited number of people in the office, and the fact that it _ had _ been five years of name-choosing. All the same. This felt like a _ sign _of some kind.

Because Crowley had, of late, started to get the distinct impression that Aziraphale might, well, _ like _ him, to be about as juvenile about it as possible. Crowley was, after all, hyper-aware of just about everything Aziraphale said or did, particularly when it involved him, and although he was far from an objective observer in this case, a certain pattern had begun to emerge over the last few months. Item A: Aziraphale had gotten drunk and called Crowley “sexy” in the men’s room of a pub. Item B: “I don’t think I could bear it here if you left.” Item C: “You’ve got the _ physique _ for it.” Item D: “I don’t think so, _ my dear.” _ And eating takeaway together in the breakroom that night probably comprised items E through Z all on its own. Surely it wasn’t self-delusion to think all of that meant _ something? _

So having Aziraphale for Secret Santa looked rather like an opportunity to, perhaps, send a signal of his own. 

**AZIRAPHALE: **Just saw Gabriel come by Sales. Who’d you get for Secret Santa?

**CROWLEY: **look i know you like to read so surely you understand the meaning of the word “secret”

**AZIRAPHALE: **Oh, please. As though you care about rules.

**CROWLEY: **oh but i do

**CROWLEY: **love a rule

**CROWLEY: **the more rules the better, that’s what i always say

**AZIRAPHALE: **Fine, I’ll go first, I’ve got Ligur. I’ll need your help with that one, I think.

**AZIRAPHALE: **You have to tell me yours now, I told you mine.

**CROWLEY: **don’t remember agreeing to anything of the sort.

**AZIRAPHALE: **You’re not serious.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Are you serious?

**CROWLEY: ** _ deadly serious _

**AZIRAPHALE: **You’re not angry with me about something, are you?

**AZIRAPHALE: **Or are you just teasing?

**AZIRAPHALE: **If you’re angry, please tell me what I did, I’d like to apologize.

**CROWLEY: **oh...oh Aziraphale

**CROWLEY: **you’re literally an angel

**AZIRAPHALE: ** You _ know _ that’s not what _ literally _means.

**CROWLEY: **no i’m not angry at you

**CROWLEY: **you didn’t do anything

**CROWLEY: **just trying not to get on gabriel’s bad side for once

**AZIRAPHALE: ** Well, it’s not like I’m going to _ tell _him.

**CROWLEY: **hmm idk about that

**CROWLEY: **you might be…a SPY

**AZIRAPHALE: ** Oh, _ really? _

**CROWLEY: **oh yeah

**CROWLEY: **our entire friendship has been built on lies, i can feel it

**AZIRAPHALE: **You’re being ridiculous.

**CROWLEY: **it’s all part of gabriel’s grand plan. you’re his spy and i am but your pawn

**AZIRAPHALE: ** Stop, you’re making me _ laugh. _I’m supposed to be working. 

Crowley glanced up to see that Aziraphale did, in fact, appear to be stifling giggles.

**CROWLEY: **smh so undignified. you’re the face of this company you know. can’t have a giggly receptionist. what will clients think??? you’re a very bad spy tbh

**AZIRAPHALE: **I’m not a spy at all!

**CROWLEY: **see that’s exactly what a spy would say. you’ve been manipulating me this whole time and i’ve been playing right into your hands

**CROWLEY: **however…what if. you vowed to give up your spy ways

**CROWLEY: **settle down, get a cottage somewhere

**AZIRAPHALE: **Well now, that sounds a great deal more pleasant than being a spy.

**CROWLEY: **you are so easy to reform hahaha. all right then. guess your spying days are done. off to the cottage with you.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Oh. Won’t you be coming?

Crowley looked up almost without meaning to. Aziraphale was still looking at the computer screen, a slight smile on his face. Crowley’s heart contracted at the thought that _ he’d _been responsible for that smile, that the dreamy expression playing over Aziraphale’s features was the result of the silly fantasy he’d constructed for him. 

**CROWLEY: **didn’t know that you’d want me

**AZIRAPHALE: **Well, I scarcely think it’ll be any fun otherwise.

The important thing was, Crowley thought to himself, that he’d gotten Aziraphale off the topic of Secret Santa assignments. Anything else was just...extra.

* * *

Despite Gabriel’s high level of emotional investment in the CPC Christmas party— “it is,” he’d told Crowley with an entirely straight face, “the single most important social event of the holiday season” —he nevertheless refused to do any of the planning work himself. Instead, he shoved it off on the administrative staff, which was to say, Aziraphale. And given Aziraphale’s general incompetence when it came to anything involving planning ahead, Crowley found himself doing quite a bit of work on the Christmas party. Not that he was particularly organized himself, mind you, but at least he was able to figure out the website to order catering. 

“So,” Crowley said, approaching Reception, menu in hand, “I’ve got the hors d’oeuvres sorted, d’you want to weigh in on the dessert options?”

“Ooh,” said Aziraphale, “yes.” He took the menu from Crowley and looked it over, making small noises of approval and disapproval as he did so. “Well, I think certainly something with chocolate, don’t you?”

“Right,” Crowley said, “thought maybe the white chocolate macadamia cookies—”

“Oh, _ no,” _ Aziraphale said, _ “white _chocolate isn’t proper chocolate, you know. We’ve got to go dark. The more bitter the better.”

“Dark and bitter?” Crowley asked, without thinking. “Like your chocolate like your men, do you?”

His brain caught up to his mouth a second later. “Oh, God,” he said, mortified, “sorry, sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to, erm, wildly inappropriate, I know—”

But, he realized, mid-stammer, Aziraphale was actually _ laughing. _ “Oh, my,” he said, catching his breath for a second before relapsing into giggles, “that _ is _funny. Yes, please, something with chocolate just as bitter as you.”

Crowley filed that away in the To-Be-Obsessed-Over-Later corner of his brain, and confined his visible reaction to a nod. “Right, well, probably the mousse then, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, “and then something with fruit, I think, for anyone who _ doesn’t _like chocolate.”

“Heathens,” Crowley said, taking the menu back. “They don’t deserve dessert.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Be that as it may. The mini strawberry shortcakes, do you agree?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, circling the two desserts on the menu. “I’ll put the order in today, then, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thank you ever so much for your help with this,” Aziraphale said, “it’s really been invaluable.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s no trouble. Certainly better than watching Hastur clip his toenails into our _ shared _rubbish bin, so.”

“High praise,” Aziraphale said, dryly, “but I do mean it. I’ve no idea how I’ll repay you.”

“Well,” said Crowley, “you’ll just have to get me a _ really good _Christmas present, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, with perfect sincerity, “I shall, shan’t I?”

“Oh—” Crowley cringed at himself, again— “oh, no, I was _ joking, _listen, there’s no need to get me anything, y’know.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, smiling in a distinctly mischievous fashion, “no, I’ve actually, I’ve got it already.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Have you really?”

“I have,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley shook his head. “Well, then, I’d better get going with this order, hadn’t I? If I’m to earn...whatever this is.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley headed back to his desk. Hastur had, mercifully, put his shoes back on. Crowley tried _ very _ hard not to look into the bin.

He filled out the catering order form online, half his brain still on _ just as bitter as you _ and the other half wondering what, exactly, Aziraphale had got him for Christmas. Crowley had spent the better part of a Saturday afternoon searching for exactly the right Secret Santa present for Aziraphale—a book? No, he didn’t trust himself to pick one Aziraphale wouldn’t have already read. Fancy chocolates? Well, now that he knew to go _ dark and bitter _ , perhaps that would’ve worked, but he was pretty well satisfied with what he’d found. He’d hit, he thought, all the right notes. It probably wasn’t _ actually _ possible for a gift to say “Merry Christmas and also I love you and also we’re at a work event” all at once, but Crowley’d come as close as he could manage. He’d also picked up a card, which sat, still blank, on his desk at home, taunting him. Words—words written down, those were difficult. Those couldn’t be taken back, couldn’t be explained away with plausible deniability or very close friendship. Words were altogether too dangerous, he decided, and let the card languish, uninscribed. 

* * *

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, as Crowley walked by Reception, “you wouldn’t be able to stay late tonight, would you? I’ve got decorating to do for the party tomorrow, and it _ does _go easier with two.”

“Think I can make it happen,” Crowley said, with feigned nonchalance. 

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale said, “the tree’s got to be decked, I’ve got all the ornaments and things.”

Gabriel, who was passing by on his way out the door, eagerly slapped a hand on Aziraphale’s desk. “You got my addition, didn’t you?” he asked, with barely-repressed delight. “The ornament?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, in a tone that Crowley would have described as _ withering, _“I saw your addition.”

“It’s a Santa ornament,” Gabriel told Crowley, “and he’s on a little exercise bike, because, you know, he’s fat, and he wants to lose weight. But, here’s the thing: _ he’s eating a cookie while he’s on the bike. _Isn’t that a hoot?”

“Hilarious,” Crowley said.

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “Exactly! Right, well, I’m off, I expect a full decorated tree when I come in tomorrow!”

“That ornament,” Aziraphale said, as soon as Gabriel was out the door, “is the tackiest thing I have ever seen in my entire _ life. _ It’s going to _ completely _throw off the aesthetics.”

Crowley lightly massaged his shoulder, which Gabriel had slapped _just _hard enough to sting. “The _aesthetics? _It’s a Christmas tree. Isn’t the aesthetic just Christmas?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve decided to go _ metallic, _ look.” He reached under the reception desk and pulled out a box of round ornaments, all gold or silver. “These,” he said, gesturing to them, “are the base, and then I’ve got some accents in different shapes to really make it pop. But the idiotic _ Santa _ ornament won’t fit in at _ all.” _

Crowley snorted.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well,” Crowley said, “only that you’ve clearly put a truly remarkable amount of thought into this—”

“I don’t see why _ that _should be funny,” Aziraphale interrupted, “that I should want the tree to look nice—”

_ “And,” _Crowley continued, cutting him off, “that, for this same party, you completely forgot to order flatware. Priorities, Aziraphale. That’s all.”

_ “Flatware,” _ Aziraphale repeated, “oh no, it didn’t even _ occur _to me—”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley said, holding up a finger. “Took care of it myself.”

“Oh—” Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, that’s _ so _kind.”

Crowley shrugged. “Well, put enough effort into ordering the catering, didn’t we? Wouldn’t want to not be able to eat it. Purely selfish motives.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, “of course.” He came out from behind the desk, carrying the ornament box with him. “Shall we get started?”

Crowley glanced around the office. It was only quarter to five, but Gabriel’s early departure had clearly spurred several of the other staff to sneak out themselves. He could hear the faint clatter of a keyboard coming from Accounting—Michael had Opinions about people who snuck out early—but their immediate area, and that surrounding the tree, was empty. 

“All right,” he said, taking the ornaments from Aziraphale, “let’s.”

The tree wasn’t very tall, nor very wide, due mostly to limitations on what could fit through the office doorway. From Crowley’s perspective, this had both negative and positive impacts. Negative: The tree being rather short meant that Aziraphale was fully capable of reaching the highest branches himself, and Crowley was forced to abandon his “Aziraphale hands me an ornament and I stretch up to hang it for him” fantasy. Positive: The tree being rather slender meant that two people decorating it at once were quite likely to experience various accidental brushes of arms, and hands, and even, at one point, hips. (Fortunately, that last one took place just after Michael had left, and the office was empty, so that no one but Aziraphale was around to hear the way that Crowley’s breath hitched.)

“All done, I think,” Aziraphale said, stepping back and surveying their handiwork. 

Although it was a little _ too _shiny for Crowley’s taste, the ornaments crammed in against each other just a trifle too tightly, their shapes a little too varied, he was, on the whole, quite pleased. Gabriel’s ornament had been relegated to the back, where it didn’t ruin the visual effect.

“Nice job,” he said, grinning at Aziraphale. “All set for the party, then, are we?”

“Just about,” said Aziraphale, “got your Secret Santa gift, have you?”

“I have,” Crowley said, “and don’t you go asking me again who I’ve got, you’ll find out tomorrow with everyone else.”

“Very well,” said Aziraphale, “I shall simply have to _ anticipate.” _

There was a great deal of that going around, Crowley thought, driving home. It seemed ridiculous that he should be attaching so much weight to the CPC Christmas party, an event where nothing remotely interesting had ever happened _ before. _ All the same, he _ anticipated— _Aziraphale receiving his present, smiling softly at him across the room, over the heads and behind the backs of everyone else. A spoken thank-you, of course, said with earnestness. A chance to see reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes the adoration that Crowley radiated every time he got near him. 

First, of course, he’d have to get through the party.

* * *

At least there was plenty of alcohol, and _ good _ alcohol, too (if there was one thing Aziraphale _ could _do competently, it was pick wines). Crowley didn’t get drunk, not even close, but a few drinks in and he was just tipsy enough not to be annoyed when Gabriel grabbed the Snackercize ornament and relocated it to a far more prominent position than the one Aziraphale and Crowley had chosen. 

Aziraphale, too, seemed to be feeling quite in charity with the world. When Michael (who didn’t drink, of course) made a pointed comment about the tree being _ overstuffed _with ornamentation, Aziraphale, instead of taking umbrage, merely clapped her on the back and told her she could do it next year, then.

The hors d’oeuvres were tasty, the desserts satisfying (watching a slightly-less-inhibited Aziraphale devour chocolate mousse was an _ experience), _and by the time they sat down to do Secret Santa, Crowley was ready to pronounce the party a success. 

“So,” Gabriel said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, “who wants to go first?”

There was a minute of resounding apathetic silence before Beelzebub took pity on him and said, “All right, I will. Here you go, Dagon.” She handed over a box wrapped in—did that wrapping paper have _ houseflies _ on it? But Dagon unwrapped it quickly enough that Crowley wasn’t able to tell for certain. It likely _ wasn’t _houseflies, though. Right? 

“Hanging file folders,” Dagon said, delighted. “Just what I needed!”

Gabriel made a face. “Right, well, gifts aren’t really supposed to be _ office-related, _is the thing—”

“No, I love them,” Dagon said, “Beelzebub got it just right.”

“Ooooh-kay,” Gabriel said, “who’s next, then?”

Gifts went back and forth fairly quickly, then, followed by thank-yous that were mostly polite but occasionally enthusiastic (_ how _ Aziraphale had known that Ligur would enjoy a stuffed lizard so much, Crowley had no idea). Crowley himself received a scarf, from Uriel, that he might actually _ wear. _Overall, for a workplace Secret Santa, an unequivocal success. 

They were down to only a few gifts left to give, now, and Crowley could see Aziraphale doing mental calculations about who was left and what that might mean, and decided it was time to act before the element of surprise was completely lost. “I’ll go next,” he said, and picked up his box. “Here, Aziraphale—” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, who apparently _ hadn’t _ quite figured it out yet, “oh, _ thank you, _Crowley.”

“Go on,” Crowley said, sitting back down. “Open it up.”

Aziraphale didn’t tear at wrapping paper, the way most people did. He removed it gently, with maddening slowness and precision, taking care not to rip at or mar any of the edges.

It drove Crowley nearly wild.

At last—at _ long _ last—Aziraphale got all of the wrapping paper off, folded it and placed it delicately next to him, and looked down at the box. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, Crowley, that’s _ lovely.” _

Crowley’s heart swelled, and his face suddenly felt very warm indeed, and he tried not to think about the fact that their coworkers were all around them. “Glad y’like it,” he muttered.

“What _ is _it?” Gabriel asked, leaning over. 

Aziraphale gently pulled his gift out of the box and held it up for everyone to see. It was a Christmas tree topper in the shape of an angel, all white and gold and shining and beautiful. Crowley’d found it in the back corner of a small local shop. He wasn’t one for kitschy decorations, generally, but this angel in particular had a purity about it that he’d found strangely appealing. Looking at Aziraphale now, at the tender joy on his face as he showed off the angel, Crowley had a strong suspicion as to why.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, smiling first up at Crowley, then down at the angel. “It’s perfect.”

Crowley considered it a feat of remarkable self-restraint that he managed not to yell “YOU’RE PERFECT!” in return.

* * *

The problem with being the de facto party-planning team was that you also became the de facto party-cleaning-up team, Crowley reflected, as the last of their coworkers darted out the door without so much as _ offering _to help tidy. 

“Can’t we leave it for the caretaker?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.

“I don’t think so,” Crowley said, “‘s not really fair to them, is it? Not _ their _party.”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale said, and sighed, and began collecting paper plates. “At any rate,” he said, a touch more cheerfully, “seems like the party was a success.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “we didn’t do half badly, did we?”

“Thank you _ again,” _Aziraphale said, “I know it’s not your job—”

Crowley held up a half-eaten mini quiche in protest. “Not yours either, really, is it?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “no, but I was _ told _to do it—”

“And I wanted to help,” Crowley said, then, after a second, added, “help _ you.” _

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “that _ reminds _ me.” He put down the clump of tinsel he was holding and bustled over to Reception, ducking down underneath his desk. “I also _ must _ thank you properly for the gift, the, the angel,” he said, his voice muffled by the desk, “and apologize for _ dogging _you about Secret Santa, must’ve been terribly annoying for you—” He emerged from the desk holding a box covered in tartan wrapping paper and accented with a bright blue bow. “And,” he said, triumphantly, “I’ve got to give you your present.”

“My present,” Crowley repeated, idiotically.

“Well, _ yes,” _Aziraphale said, “told you I’d gotten you one, didn’t I?” He crossed to Crowley and handed him the box. “Merry Christmas, my dear.”

Crowley took the box, trying not to notice the slight brush of Aziraphale’s fingers against his. Really, he should be _ used _to it by now, it wasn’t like they’d never touched before, but still, he felt a distinct shiver run down his spine, from anticipation or perhaps just attraction.

“Open it,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley ran a finger underneath the edge of the wrapping paper, breaking the seal of the tape. He took the paper off as carefully as possible, but it still tore and wrinkled, and when he’d got it all off he wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he balled it up and tossed it awkwardly into the rubbish bin. The box itself was black, and bore the logo of a store Crowley’d never heard of. He lifted the lid.

Aziraphale had got him a pair of gloves—leather, he realized, picking one up and feeling it, _ real _leather, and decorated with a snakeskin pattern on the outside. 

“For your hands,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley considered saying something about “well, didn’t think they’d be for my _ feet, _ did I?” But he resolved to, for once, not ruin the moment with an ill-timed joke, not when Aziraphale was standing there _ glowing _at him, looking more like the angel than ever.

“They’re brilliant,” he said, instead, and slipped one of the gloves on, enjoying the sensation of the leather against his skin.

Aziraphale glowed even more brightly. “I noticed,” he said, in what he probably thought was a modestly proud tone, “that you’re always sticking your hands in your pockets, when we’re outside, and, well. Thought I’d help you stay warm.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, because he couldn’t formulate any thoughts more coherent than that, not with Aziraphale standing there telling him he’d been noticing Crowley’s hands, and thinking about them, and wanting to _ help. _

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley jumped a little bit, “oh, I almost forgot! You’ve got an extra gift, it’s in there, too, under the gloves.”

Crowley fished around in the tissue paper, and found a photo, clearly several years old, of a teenage boy with goth-black hair and poorly applied eyeliner, scowling at the camera in an utterly nonthreatening way. “Who’s—” he started to ask, and then looked back and forth between the photo and Aziraphale a few times before bursting into laughter.

“Look,” Aziraphale said, annoyance and amusement mingled in his tone, “you _ wanted _to see it.”

“Oh, I _ did,” _ Crowley said, gaining control over his giggles, “lord, didn’t think it’d be this _ good—” _

“It was a different time,” Aziraphale said defensively, “_ American Idiot _had just come out—”

Crowley stopped laughing, though the sense of near-hysteria, that something was bubbling dangerously close to the edge of his heart, remained. “No, I, I _ love _ it, really, it’s _ perfect, _I’m so glad you showed me.” 

Aziraphale let out a small contented sigh.

And Crowley, half-drunk on wine and hand touches and _ my dear _and the way Aziraphale kept smiling at him, said, suddenly, desperately, all the love he’d been storing away shooting at once to the surface, overwhelming him with its intensity, “I need to know.”

Aziraphale’s face changed, immediately, became guarded, and if Crowley’d had any sense he would’ve stopped there. “Know what?”

“If you—if this—God, Aziraphale, I need, I need you to tell me that it’s not just me, that I’m not, I don’t know, delusional, that this isn’t all in my head.”

“Crowley—” Aziraphale said, shaking his head, warning him away.

“You _ have _ to know,” he said, reaching out and grasping Aziraphale’s hand in his, “you _ have _to, it’s obvious, isn’t it, the way I—that I—”

_ “No,” _Aziraphale said, so firmly that Crowley’s jaw snapped closed of its own accord. “No, don’t do this. Please. Don’t make me—don’t do this.”

Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s hand more tightly, hanging on to it like the only outcropping on a smooth cliff face. “I have to tell you,” he said, and Aziraphale closed his eyes as though at some exquisite pain. “I need you to know, please, I can’t keep going on like this, not anymore, with you sitting right there and being _ you _ and me not being able to say what’s been building up inside of me for _ years—” _

Aziraphale wrenched his hand away from Crowley’s. “Don’t say it,” he said, a command, not a request.

Crowley stopped babbling, and watched him, feeling as though his heart, his mind, all of him might crack open right there.

“I care about you,” Aziraphale said, his tone barely controlled, “so much, Crowley, you’re my best friend. Not my best friend at work, _ you’re my best friend. _And I can’t—we can’t—you know the rules. So please, please, don’t say it, don’t put yourself through this, put me through this, when there’s only one way it can end, only one way I can respond.”

Crowley just stood there, miserable and numb. 

“We’d lose our jobs,” Aziraphale said, “if we—and if anyone found out—and that’s, it’s not an option. And I, well, if things were different…” He trailed off, and his face took on a dreamy cast that prompted hope to surge up from Crowley’s despair. “But they aren’t,” Aziraphale continued, “and, so, I hope you have a lovely Christmas holiday, enjoy the gloves, please, I’ll see you in the New Year.” 

Aziraphale moved slowly, deliberately, over to the coat rack, put on his coat, collected his things, tucked the angel, now back in its box, under his arm. His mouth opened, for a moment, as though he were going to say something else. But he closed it, and just nodded at Crowley, instead, and walked out the door.

Crowley stood there, in the middle of the office, surrounded by the mess of the party, Aziraphale’s photo now crumpled in his hand, and felt a hole open up in his chest, as though there’d been something there once that was now gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand I'm sorry.
> 
> This chapter is based on The Office episodes "Christmas Party" and "Casino Night" (US version) and "Interview" (UK version). 
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr: [fremulon](http://fremulon.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also this is definitely the angstiest this fic is gonna get, so don't worry, we're staying firmly in sitcom territory!


	5. Sales Conference

If Crowley had thought that it was a kind of torture to see Aziraphale every day, talk to him, flirt with him, and not be able to say what he desperately wanted to say—well, he’d had no idea how much worse it could be. Actual torture, it turned out, was seeing Aziraphale every day and _ not _talking to him, not planning pranks together, not exchanging exasperated looks whenever Gabriel did something particularly idiotic. It was as though Crowley’s own personal sun had been covered over by a raincloud. 

Crowley had returned from Christmas holidays still so stung by Aziraphale’s rejection—deflection—whatever it had been, that when Aziraphale had greeted him with his usual smile, his usual brightness, Crowley had just walked on past without saying anything. He looked up once he got to his desk, and saw only hurt on Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale had tried a few more times, that first week back, to reach out, to be friends again, to act like nothing had happened, but Crowley met every advance with a stone wall of bare civility, and soon enough Aziraphale had retreated into icy politeness in return.

There were two possibilities, the way Crowley saw it. One, that Aziraphale saw him as a friend—a best friend, apparently, a friend he’d called “sexy,” but then, you could think friends were sexy without actually _ wanting _ them, Crowley supposed, and had used CPC’s no-dating policy as an excuse to let Crowley down gently. Or, alternatively, perhaps Aziraphale did, in fact, return Crowley’s regard (and when Crowley thought back on that night, on the look in Aziraphale’s eyes and the tremor in his voice, he both hoped and feared that might be true), but did not see a potential relationship—did not see _ Crowley— _ as something worth risking his job for. His job as a _ receptionist, _ which he _ hated. _Crowley couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse than the other.

He’d spent Christmas getting drunk alone in his flat and composing resignation emails to Gabriel, playing over and over in his mind what would happen if he were to call Aziraphale and say, “I’ve quit, I don’t care about my stupid job anyway, not the way I care about you, there’s no rules anymore, nothing stopping us, please, please, do you want me now?” Some of these scenarios ended with passionate kissing and swelling romantic music and a crowd of people applauding in the background. But the vast majority of the time, in Crowley’s head, Aziraphale turned him down, sometimes gently, sometimes harshly (“You quit your _ job? _ For _ me? _ How _ pathetic.”) _and the resignation emails remained in his drafts folder.

The only part of the situation that could’ve even _ remotely _ been considered positive was the fact that Crowley, ever since Christmas, was performing at a higher level than ever, work-wise. There wasn’t any point, it seemed, to wasting time playing pranks on the other salesmen, when Aziraphale wasn’t going to laugh at them. No more flirtatious Slack messages, no more unnecessary trips up to Reception, and all of a sudden Crowley had quite a lot of time on his hands for actual _ work. _ His sales numbers were through the roof; he’d outsold _ Sandalphon _in January, which Crowley was fairly certain had never happened before, not even that time Sandalphon got the flu and was out for a week. (He’d done video sales calls from his sickbed until Beelzebub had found out and made him stop.)

“Crowley!” Gabriel poked his head out of his office. “Can you come in here for a second?”

Crowley eased out of his chair and went in, careful not to look at Reception, as he went by, careful not to give any hint of what he was feeling. Although, it was probably _ obvious, _wasn’t it. He’d never been good at hiding his feelings, never seen much reason to, and it had been all too clear, from Aziraphale’s reaction to Crowley’s aborted declaration, that he’d been well aware of how he felt. Which was, of course, humiliating. 

All the same, he didn’t make eye contact with Aziraphale, even though his muscle memory wanted to turn and look at him the way he’d done every day for so long. 

“Crowley,” Gabriel said, gesturing for him to sit down, “I’ve noticed a change in you.”

“Hrmm?” Crowley asked, noncommittally.

“Yes,” Gabriel said, “your sales numbers have gone _ way _up this past month, nice going, champ!”

“Thanks,” said Crowley.

“And you know the company-wide sales conference is coming up in a couple weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Gabriel said, beaming, “I was _ going _ to send Sandalphon but it turns out your numbers were better, so _ you _ get to go! Lucky duck. I remember going to those myself, when I was a salesman. Never had more fun than at the good ol’ CPC sales conference parties. You know what they say: what happens in the Slough branch manager’s hotel room _ stays _in the Slough branch manager’s hotel room.”

“Right,” said Crowley, “that old chestnut.”

“So you can go ahead and book your travel,” Gabriel continued, missing the sarcasm completely, “Beelzebub’ll send along an email with the dates. Sound good?”

It did not, in fact, sound good. Crowley had less than zero desire to go to a CPC-wide sales conference, to sit through three days of presentations and seminars and awkward cocktail hours. He had even less desire to see Sandalphon’s reaction when he heard that he, for once, wouldn’t get to go. The annual sales conference was, Crowley was pretty sure, the highlight of Sandalphon’s year. He talked about it for _ weeks _afterwards. 

So he was about to tell Gabriel thanks but no thanks, he had some very important immovable plans that week, but then it occurred to him that three days at the conference meant three days out of the office. Three days of not having to look at Aziraphale, hear his voice answer the phone and promise to transfer and answer the phone again because the transfer hadn’t gone through.

“Sounds good,” he said.

* * *

It was more than a little depressing, really, how easily Crowley’s life shifted around the conference trip. He didn’t have to arrange childcare, or cancel plans with friends, or hire a pet-sitter; no one and nothing, it seemed, depended on him. (Well, he did arrange for the girl who lived downstairs to water his plants, but that was about it.) He could, he realized, have up and moved out of his flat, out of Swindon, out of his entire _ life, _and not inconvenienced anyone except himself. He might’ve been leaving for good, instead of on a three-day trip to Leeds, for all anyone would care.

Well, perhaps _ someone _would care. A certain coworker, in fact, who’d been eyeing Crowley in a speculative fashion for the last few days.

“Sandalphon,” Crowley said at last, after looking up from his computer and receiving the fifth nasty stare in as many hours, “what is your _ problem?” _

“Nothing,” Sandalphon said, unconvincingly. 

“Well, then, stop staring at me,” Crowley hissed, “you’re being awfully _ distracting. _ Some of us are trying to do _ work.” _

“Oh we are, are we?” Sandalphon asked. “We’re not planning our trip to the _ sales conference?” _

“No,” Crowley said, “that’s been done. Are you really _ that _upset about this?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sandalphon said, “just think it’s _ interesting _ that you’ve got such a _ work ethic _all of a sudden.”

Crowley tried and failed to prevent his eyes from flicking automatically over to Aziraphale, who thankfully didn’t seem to be paying attention. “Turning over a new leaf, I guess,” he said, forcing his gaze back to Sandalphon. “Got a problem with that?”

“And I just find it _ curious,” _ Sandalphon continued, having apparently missed the Aziraphale glance, “that the month in which you outsell me for the first time _ ever _ is the month in which my _ phone number _seems to have got into the hands of every would-be-Good-Samaritan in Swindon who’s found a set of lost keys. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Oh, _ Christ,” _Crowley said, “you think I’ve masterminded some grand plan to get Gabriel to send me to the conference instead of you? That’s what you think?”

Sandalphon shrugged. “I just think it’s _ interesting.” _

“Look,” Crowley said, “I’m sorry, or whatever, that you’re disappointed, but I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I’m going, and you’re not, and that’s the whole story.”

“No, that’s fine,” said Sandalphon, “that’s absolutely fine, I’m certain you’ll do a wonderful job with the presentation.”

Crowley blinked slowly. “With the _ presentation?” _

Sandalphon grinned. It wasn’t a friendly grin. “Yeah. What, did Gabriel not mention it? He can be so _ forgetful _ about this stuff. Well, of course, he could afford to be, all these years, since I went ahead and did all the work myself and didn’t _ need _to be told what to do.”

“Sandalphon,” said Crowley through gritted teeth, _ “what presentation?” _

“The presentation on the status of the branch,” Sandalphon said angelically, “to the whole conference. Every branch gives one. I’m sure you’ve heard me talk about it. It’s really quite simple, just an update on how we’re doing, you can get the numbers together in a couple days, I’m _ sure.” _

Well. That was completely _ great. _Public speaking in front of a bunch of strangers, what wasn’t to love?

“I’d give you my notes from last year, as a starting point,” Sandalphon said, smirking, “but I’m sure you don’t need them.” He gazed at Crowley, daring him to ask.

Crowley, instead of giving in, vaulted up out of his chair and crossed to Gabriel’s office in a few long strides. He barged in without knocking.

Gabriel looked up from the gem-matching game he was pretending not to play on his desktop. “Crowley! Getting ready to head off to Leeds next week?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “actually, wanted to ask about the presentation? On the branch? That I’m apparently supposed to give?”

Gabriel slapped his forehead and made an _ oh-silly-me _ face. _ “Right, _that old thing. Knew there was something I was forgetting to mention. Yeah, so just throw something together, I’m sure it’ll be fine, Sandalphon always managed it easily.”

“Throw something together?” Crowley asked, with increasing panic. “Like _ what?” _

“I don’t know,” Gabriel said, annoyance creeping into his voice, “you figure it out. Oh, and, by the way, you’re driving to Leeds, right? Your car can take another passenger, I’m guessing?”

“It _ can,” _ Crowley said, warily, “what, are you sending Sandalphon along just in _ case—” _

“No, no, nothing like that. No, actually, Aziraphale’s going to be joining you. He mentioned wanting to learn more about the other career paths in the office, and we’re all about upward mobility here at CPC, so I told him he should come along with you and see how Sales goes. So! Maybe _ he _ can help you with the presentation.”

_ “Aziraphale’s _ coming with me?” Crowley asked, and, Jesus _ Christ, _ his heart had started _ hammering _and it suddenly seemed very difficult to breathe, and he had to put a hand on Gabriel’s desk to steady himself. 

“Yeah,” said Gabriel, cheerily, apparently not noticing Crowley’s panic, “he was a little reluctant, actually, said he didn’t want to _ impose, _but I told him I insisted! And, you two get along, right, so it shouldn’t be a problem, all that time in the car together.”

“Right,” Crowley said weakly, “all that time in the car together.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said again, as though he’d finally picked up that something might be the slightest bit _ wrong _with Crowley, “that’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

“Actually,” Crowley said, as calmly as was possible under the circumstances (which was to say, not very calmly) “I, uh, there’s a thing. An important thing-y...thing. That I have to do. Next week. So I can’t go after all. Real shame, was really looking forward to it, I bet Sandalphon’s free? If you wanted to send him?”

Gabriel’s forehead wrinkled. “A _ thing-y...thing?” _

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “One of those. You know.”

“No,” said Gabriel, and now there was a bit of an edge in his voice, and Crowley was very abruptly reminded that his boss might have been an _ idiot _ but he was still his _ boss, _ with all the attendant firing-powers that entailed. “I don’t know, actually, but what I _ do _ know is that it would be pretty inconvenient for the company if we’d spent a few thousand pounds sending you to this conference and then you happened to _ have a thing _ and couldn’t go after all. Pretty _ darn _inconvenient, Crowley.”

“Riiiight,” said Crowley, trying to come up with a way out of this and drawing blank after blank. “Y’know. Now that I think about it. Maybe I can move the...thing.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Gabriel said, and smiled.

Crowley shuddered. “Yeah, right, well, back to work then, you know me, nose to the old grindstone, uh, so, bye.”

He speed-walked out of Gabriel’s office and straight past Reception, past his own desk, too, all the way to the break room, which was mercifully empty. So he sunk into a chair, leaned his elbows on the table, put his head down between his arms, and tried to force his breathing to go from shallow to deep. 

“Crowley.”

Crowley jerked his head up from the table to see Aziraphale standing in the doorway to the break room, concern writ on his face.

“Leave me _ alone,” _Crowley said, sinking his head back down onto the table, “‘s embarrassing enough as it is without you here to see it.”

_ “What’s _embarrassing?” Aziraphale asked, and without waiting for an answer crossed the break room to where Crowley was sitting and sat down in the seat across from him.

Crowley raised his head again, reluctantly, and gestured vaguely to himself. “All this. The, the freaking out, panic, whatever.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, reaching out and taking Crowley’s hands in his, “I’m guessing it’s my fault, so. Wouldn’t be very kind of me to leave you alone.”

_ “Why _did you agree to go?” Crowley asked, knowing he probably ought to pull his hands away from Aziraphale’s but unable to bring himself to do it.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

“I know it wasn’t your blasted _ idea,” _ Crowley muttered, “why did you _ agree _to it?”

“Well, a few reasons, actually,” Aziraphale said. “One, I really _do _want to learn about the different areas of the company. And I very much _don’t _want to be a receptionist my entire life, so. Not entirely sure Sales is for me, but it can’t hurt to explore.”

“Right,” said Crowley, abjectly, “sorry, I wasn’t thinking—obviously your career, it’s important, ‘s worth the awkwardness, we’ll work it out—”

“And,” Aziraphale continued, cutting him off, “to be entirely frank, I miss you. I miss my best friend. Two months ago we’d have jumped at the chance to go on a trip together. I don’t see any reason it should be different now.” 

“You _ don’t?” _Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows. “None at all?”

“No,” said Aziraphale firmly, “I _ don’t.” _

Crowley sighed. “All right,” he said, “I mean, we can’t get out of it, now, so. Might as well make the best of it.”

“How flattering,” Aziraphale said dryly, and released Crowley’s hands. “So. We leave next Tuesday. I hear you’re driving.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and allowed himself to smile. 

“Looking forward to it,” Aziraphale said, and smiled back. “For now, though, if you’re alright, I’d better get back to work.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley said, and found that he meant it.

“Good.” Aziraphale rose from his chair and left the breakroom.

Crowley stared after him. All right, then. Maybe it _wouldn’t _be that bad. Yes, all right, spending hours in a car together, probably eating meals together, walking around and sightseeing at night after dinner, all of that would be filled with that pain-tinged pleasure of being _so close _to what he wanted it to be. But then, it would’ve been that way two months ago, too, before he’d cocked everything up, and Aziraphale was right—he’d have jumped at the chance all the same. He’d decided a long time ago, after all, that he’d take whatever Aziraphale was willing to give him, like a spaniel licking up scraps from its master’s plate.

Pathetic, but true.

So he stood up from the table, shook his head to clear it, cracked his back in the way Aziraphale disapproved of, and walked back out to the main office, hoping that he didn’t look like someone who’d just been hyperventilating over a _ sales conference. _

Aziraphale smiled at him as he went by Reception, and Crowley was fine, he was great, he felt like everything might be all right after all— 

“Oh, Crowley—” Gabriel poked his head out of his office door. “Conference hotel’s all booked up, Beelzebub says, so we can’t get Aziraphale his own room, he’ll have to share with you. Just a heads-up!”

Crowley’s head swiveled towards Aziraphale of its own accord, and, if there was anything at all to be grateful for in this moment, it was that he _ looked _ just as panicked as Crowley _ felt. _

* * *

It had taken Crowley the better part of the weekend to pack for the sales conference. Not for the _ sessions, _ or the presentation, or anything—that was all fine, regular work clothes, no problem at all. What _ was _ a problem, however, was what to wear to sleep. To sleep in the same room as _ Aziraphale. _ He’d dumped out the contents of his pajama drawer on his bed and scowled at them. The flannel set that could’ve kept a coldblooded reptile warm? Cozy, yes, but _ ridiculous _ in appearance. The black silk pajamas that he’d bought as a “this isn’t where I thought my life would be at twenty-nine” birthday present to himself? They were almost _ too _ flattering. The _ last _ thing he wanted was for Aziraphale to think he was mounting some sort of _ seduction _at the conference Hilton. 

In the end, he’d thrown an old pair of joggers and an oversized T-shirt into the suitcase, figuring that it was best to seem like he didn’t care about how he looked, even if he very much did. He’d also fretted over whether to include _ all _ the products in his skincare regimen, for fear of looking fussy, until he’d realized that Aziraphale very likely used even _ more _ products and had absolutely _ no _concerns about looking fussy, so why should he? 

Still, Tuesday morning arrived, and Crowley was beyond keyed-up with nervousness. He’d vacuumed the inside of his car, washed the outside, gone through the glove compartment and all the cupholders to make sure there wasn’t anything embarrassing hidden there, ensured that the tank was full and the oil had been changed recently and that, in short, there wasn’t anything that Aziraphale could possibly find to repulse him.

It was a small consolation that, when he pulled into the CPC car park to find Aziraphale waiting for him, _ he _looked just as nervous. Without really thinking about it, Crowley hopped out of the car, picked up Aziraphale’s apparently one-hundred-year-old suitcase, and opened the passenger-side door. “C’mon in,” he said, gesturing awkwardly at the seat.

Aziraphale sent him a surprised smile. “Why, thank you,” he said, climbing into the car. Crowley loaded the suitcase in the back and got back in the driver’s seat. 

“Well,” he said, after a moment, “shall we be off?”

“Sounds good,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley revved the engine with a bit more vigor than he usually did. “Oh _ my,” _said Aziraphale, sounding a little shocked but not entirely displeased, and Crowley smirked. At least he wouldn’t be the only one thrown off his rhythm on this trip. 

“So,” Crowley said, as they merged onto the motorway, “Sales.”

“Sales,” Aziraphale echoed. “What about them?”

“Well, you’ve never shown any interest in transferring to a different department before. What’s with the sudden passion for career development?”

“I told you,” Aziraphale said stiffly, “I don’t want to be a receptionist my whole life. Heaven knows I’m terrible enough at it. But, well, I haven’t got any _ skills, _really, job skills, that is, so I thought I’d better see about getting some.”

“But in _ Sales,” _ Crowley repeated. “Look, Aziraphale, I’m not going to disagree that you’d be better suited to something besides Reception, but I’m sorry, I _ cannot _see you as a salesman.”

Nor, he realized as he said it, did he _ want _ to. Crowley’d never intended to go into Sales himself, and still wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up there. He’d made the best of it, of course, had done what he could to accomplish the maximum sales numbers with the minimum amount of effort and the fewest slimy tactics—but, when push came to shove, Sales was _ dirty. _ It was lying to customers about your absolute bottom line, looking for openings, vulnerabilities, anything you could take advantage of. And Crowley _ knew, _ really, that Aziraphale was just as human and flawed as he was, but the thought of him getting—oh, this was _ very _ stupid, this was _ very _ bad, putting him on this much of a pedestal—getting _ corrupted _by Sales, that bothered Crowley.

“No,” Aziraphale said, meditatively, “I can’t really, either. But there’s got to be _ something.” _

“Accounting? Aren’t you good at maths?”

“Well, yes, I suppose, but then again I’ve always preferred the more _ theoretical _ side of things. Not all those profits and losses and _ ledgers.” _

“What,” said Crowley, half-joking, “so you’re allergic to anything remotely _ practical?” _

Aziraphale sighed. “Sometimes it does seem like it.”

Crowley glanced over at him. Aziraphale’s face was serious, his eyes downcast rather than twinkling at Crowley’s teasing. 

“Well,” Crowley said, “y’know, _ practical’s _ all nonsense anyway, right, because it’s based on, what, how useful you are in a capitalist society, which is _ inherently _ flawed logic, isn’t it? So just because your skills aren’t useful to some rich stockbroker, or whatever, doesn’t mean they’re not _ valuable. _In a larger sense.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale smile. 

“You always make me feel better,” he said, softly.

Crowley swallowed. _ Eyes on the road, you idiot— _

“Erm, so, fancy some music?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley took a deep breath. “Yeah, uh, well, not sure that our tastes are gonna overlap all that much—”

“What CDs do you have?” 

Crowley nearly ran the car off the road. _ “CDs? _ I haven’t—God, Aziraphale, _ no one _ has CDs anymore, _ please _tell me you don’t still—”

“I like to have the physical objects,” Aziraphale said defensively. “Not just _ downloads. _ Gives one a sense of _ security.” _

Crowley forbore from mentioning that he hadn’t _ downloaded _ music in quite a few years, either. “Right, well, if you do have _ downloads, _aux cord’s over there, go ahead and plug in your phone.”

Three hours and several pointed comments on _ observing the speed limit, Crowley _later, they arrived at the hotel. Crowley’s feeling of relief upon leaving one small enclosed space with Aziraphale dissipated rapidly when he remembered exactly what their sleeping arrangements were. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, indeed.

Crowley handled checking in—they’d decided, along with Beelzebub, that it made more sense for him to pay for everything to save complications on the reimbursement. Crowley didn’t mind—he wanted the credit card points. 

He also probably wanted to feel as though he were actually paying for Aziraphale, but that didn’t need to be examined closely, now did it?

“So,” Aziraphale said, surveying their room, “which bed do you want?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t care either way, really.” 

“All right, then, I’ll take this one.” Aziraphale deliberately placed his suitcase on the bed nearest the window, and Crowley followed suit with the one near the door.

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other.

“So we’ve got a few hours till conference opening—” Crowley began.

“I think I might like to go look around downstairs—” Aziraphale said, at the exact same time.

They both shut their mouths again, abruptly.

“So we have a few hours,” Crowley said, after a moment, more slowly this time, “before the welcome reception, apparently, not sure what you want to do, but I was thinking I’d review my presentation. On the branch.” He’d been trying very hard not to think about the presentation, actually, but on balance he was fairly certain it beat out thinking about _ Aziraphale and I are alone in a hotel room together _on the scale of Uncomfortable Things To Reflect On.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said. “Would you like—that is, I’d be happy to—would it be helpful at all for you to practice in front of me?”

Crowley nodded, a bit bewildered. “I mean, sure, if you don’t mind, doubt it’ll be very interesting, it’s just a lot of statistics, and stuff, but yeah, I could use the practice, I think.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands. “Oh, _ lovely. _Ooh, hang on, give me a moment—” He pulled the chair out from behind the desk and sat in it, back upright, hands folded in his lap. “Now I’m a proper audience.”

Crowley grinned. “Right, okay, so. Here goes.” He cleared his throat. “Good morning, everyone, I’m here representing the Swindon branch.”

“Wahoo!” Aziraphale called, in a most un-Aziraphale-like fashion.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. _ “Wahoo?” _

“I’m showing _ excitement _ and _ solidarity,” _Aziraphale said primly.

Crowley grinned. “Are you going to do that at the _ actual _presentation?”

“I might.”

Crowley shook his head. “Oh, no, I need to know _ now, _because if you do that during the actual thing and I’m not expecting it, there’ll be no coming back. Rest of the presentation’ll be pure gibberish.”

“Ooh,” said Aziraphale. “I’m _ powerful. _It feels nice.”

Crowley just sort of gaped, because _ really, _ after Christmas, was it even _ possible _ Aziraphale could have doubts about his _ power _over Crowley? 

“What?” Aziraphale asked. “Very well, I won’t do it, then, don’t fuss.”

Crowley realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it. “Uh. Nothing. Right, so, Swindon’s sales numbers have remained steady…”

Aziraphale remained quiet for the rest of the presentation, but erupted into enthusiastic applause at the end. 

Crowley swept an overly dramatic bow. “Thank you very much. I’m here all week. Well, for the next three days, anyway.”

“That was _ splendid,” _Aziraphale said, “really, you’re going to do wonderfully.”

Crowley shrugged. “Well. Hope so.”

“You _ are,” _Aziraphale said, and he’d stood up from the chair now, and it was only the bed separating him from Crowley, and his eyes were shining and his mouth was open, just a little, and Crowley wanted—he wanted—

“D’you want to go downstairs?” Crowley asked, desperately. “Scope out the breakfast buffet ahead of time?”

“All right,” Aziraphale agreed, apparently unaware of how close Crowley had come to making a fool of himself, _ again. _ “They _ never _have real maple syrup at these things, do they, it’s always that abominable breakfast-syrup stuff…”

“And yet you hold out hope?”

“And yet I hold out hope,” Aziraphale admitted, “that _ someday…” _

So they managed to kill time wandering around the hotel until conference opening. The welcome reception itself went about as expected, a few boring speeches from higher-ups interspersed with only slightly less boring small talk. They got through it on one drink each—Crowley wasn’t taking any risks with his inhibitions, not tonight, and apparently Aziraphale felt the same way.

And then it was over, and it was time to go back to the hotel room. _ Their _room. Together.

The whole elevator ride up _ (why _ were they on the thirteenth floor, it wasn’t like Crowley needed _ more _bad omens today), Crowley pretended to “text some friends” (read Wikipedia articles on duck mating habits) to avoid making eye contact with Aziraphale. 

But the door dinged, and opened, and with only a few steps down the hallway there they were again, standing inside a hotel room. Only now, it was dark out, and the light on the ceiling seemed to have a bulb missing, which gave the whole place a sort of candlelit dimness. 

And, Crowley realized with a sinking heart, it was only nine o’clock. 

“Uh,” he said, looking anywhere _ but _at the beds, “should we, I don’t know, watch TV? Or something?”

“Oh, television, yes,” Aziraphale said, “yes, that sounds like rather a good idea, I’ll, erm…” He picked up the remote and clicked it aimlessly, the screen bouncing from channel to channel, cooking shows and sports and singing competitions. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley after each channel-switch, as though looking for approval, or something.

After the third time through the hotel’s extremely limited channel menu, Crowley’d had enough, and said “Uh, this?” when Aziraphale landed on an old episode of _ Midsomer Murders. _

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, sounding relieved, “yes, good, all right then,” and put down the remote. He bent over, then, carefully unlaced his shoes (instead of pulling them off by force, as Crowley’d done as soon as they’d walked in the door), and sat down on the bed, settling in, his head against the pillows, his legs spread out on top of the covers.

Crowley followed suit, to the best of his ability, although it took him a good few minutes longer than Aziraphale to get comfortable_ —why _ must hotel pillows be so _ soft, _ how were you supposed to get any _ support— _but soon enough there they were, lying on their beds, like husband and wife in some 50s sitcom, watching some old lady drink cyanide.

About halfway through the episode, Crowley got a cramp in his leg, and shifted, to shake it out, and Aziraphale looked over at him. “Are you all right, there?”

“Yeah, fine,” Crowley said, “actually…” And he realized that he was a great deal better than _ fine, _ actually, that not once in the last half-hour had he worried that he was doing something wrong, or acting stupidly, or causing everyone in the immediate vicinity to hate him. He’d been able to let his mind quiet, for a moment, to just sort of _ be. _

He smiled at Aziraphale, who’d burrowed deeper into the pillows, and leaned his head back again (all right, maybe these hotel pillows weren’t _ so _bad), and tried to breathe out all the worry and fear and tension, tried to just relax.

And he succeeded, better than he’d expected, because before he knew it they were two episodes deep, and it had just turned eleven, and Aziraphale said, “Hadn’t we better think about going to bed?”

And, okay, Jesus _ Christ, _ Crowley all of a sudden wasn’t relaxed anymore, did he _ know _ how that _ sounded? _

“Erm, I’ll take the bathroom first, if you don’t mind,” Aziraphale said, in just enough of a rush that Crowley strongly suspected he _ had _realized how it sounded and was deeply regretting it.

“Sounds good,” he said, “no hurry, y’know.”

Aziraphale nodded, and took some things from his suitcase, and headed into the bathroom. 

Crowley spun around so that his legs were dangling off the side of the bed, so that he was facing the bathroom, and picked up his phone to have something to fiddle with, and waited. 

After what was either far too long or far too short a time, Aziraphale re-emerged, face scrubbed shiny clean, wearing—Crowley’s heart just about _ stopped— _ a tartan pajama set. It was ridiculous, really, Crowley reflected, ruefully, that he should be so affected by such modest sleepwear. It left _ everything _ to the imagination—though, perhaps, that was the problem. Crowley had a _ very _active imagination. 

Although, to be completely fair, no matter how elderly-Victorian-gentleman Aziraphale’s pajamas were, this was, Crowley was almost certain, the first time he’d seen Aziraphale wearing anything but work clothes. The first time he’d seen him without a _ bowtie. _It felt oddly scandalous.

“All yours,” Aziraphale said (he meant the _ bathroom, _ Crowley, you _ idiot), _ and brushed past Crowley’s bed on the way to his own. Crowley got a whiff of whatever he’d been using to wash his face and it smelled _ devastatingly _ good, and he realized that he would probably be able to smell Aziraphale’s freshly washed hair tomorrow morning, and would almost certainly have a heart attack and keel over and die on the spot, but _ what a way to go. _

Crowley managed to get himself together enough to make it to the bathroom, performed a series of half-conscious ablutions, changed into his pajamas, and brushed his teeth with enough vigor to draw blood out of his gums. (Perhaps Aziraphale was right, and he _ ought _to see a dentist, after all.) When he re-emerged, Aziraphale had crawled under the covers, and was lying on his side, half-curled into a fetal position and facing Crowley’s bed. His eyelids were drooping from sleepiness, and upon seeing Crowley, he sat up a bit, and yawned, and gave a little wave and a smile. 

“Lights out?” he asked, and Crowley could’ve _ sworn _ he saw Aziraphale’s eyes run down over his T-shirt, all the way to the joggers, which Crowley was now realizing were _ significantly _thinner than he’d first thought. But. Aziraphale was clearly tired, his gaze probably didn’t mean a thing.

Nevertheless, Crowley switched off the lights and climbed into his own bed with all possible speed. He had an internal debate over whether to lie on the side facing Aziraphale or away from him, and compromised by splaying flat out on his back like an ungainly starfish.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured.

“G’night,” Crowley returned, and stared up at the ceiling. He’d gotten through it, had been fine, for the most part, had barely even panicked at _ all, _and now all that was left was to close his eyes and let oblivion reign, at least for a few hours.

He heard a soft snuffling sound coming from the other bed, and _ of course _ Aziraphale snored in the most adorable way possible, with little noises that could barely be called snores at all. 

Crowley smiled, and closed his eyes, and let the snuffles serve as a lullaby.

When he woke up, he found that he’d shifted in his sleep to lay on his side, facing Aziraphale. 

* * *

The first full day of the conference went about as well as could reasonably be expected. Crowley got through the nerve-wracking ordeal of showering (i.e., being _ naked) _ with Aziraphale in the next room and neatly avoided the even more nerve-wracking concept of _ sitting in the next room while Aziraphale showered _by muttering something about needing coffee and bolting downstairs to the breakfast buffet. 

Even the presentation on the Swindon branch’s numbers, that morning, went better than Crowley had hoped. It turned out that having even the _ slightest _amount of performative flair set you well above the vast majority of CPC sales reps. 

“That was _ brilliant,” _ Aziraphale said, afterwards, as they went in to lunch, “you were by _ far _ the best, I wish we could’ve taped it, or something, to show Gabriel, so he could see how _ good _ you were, I’m sure that was _ much _better than any of Sandalphon’s.”

Crowley felt a flush rising to his cheeks, but nodded, and stuck his hands in his pockets, and said, “Well, high bar, that.”

“Will you _ please,” _ Aziraphale said, “for _ once, _ take the compliment without trying to deflect it?”

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, abashed.

“Apology—oh, _ Lord.” _ Aziraphale clutched at Crowley’s arm. _ “Look.” _

Crowley glanced at the spot he was indicating. A tall woman, hair impeccably styled, suit fitting better than Crowley’d known suits could fit, was approaching them. 

“Well, well,” Crowley said, hoping Aziraphale couldn’t hear the tremor in his voice. “God Herself.”

“She’s coming over _ here,” _Aziraphale whisper-yelled, “what do we—”

And then the CEO of the Celestial Paper Company was there, right in front of them, and shaking Crowley’s hand. “Swindon, yes?” she asked, and _ Christ _did she have a firm handshake, Crowley wanted a handshake like that— 

“Swindon,” he said, nodding. “Crowley. Sales.”

“Yes,” she said, “I remember. I just came by to congratulate you on your presentation today. It’s seldom that we get anyone so willing to think outside the box. Gabriel’s your manager, right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley managed.

She nodded. “I’ll have a word with him.”

_ About what? _Crowley wanted to ask, but didn’t. “Thanks,” he said, instead.

She smiled, a little. “Nice work,” she said, again, and walked off before Crowley could say goodbye.

_ “Oh—” _ Crowley realized Aziraphale was still holding his arm—“Oh, that’s _ wonderful, _ Crowley, they’re finally starting to realize that you’ve got _ talent.” _

Crowley shrugged, a bit, and Aziraphale let go. “Yeah, I...wow. Weird. That’s all I...it was _ weird.” _

“But _ good,” _Aziraphale said, and Crowley didn’t disagree.

They made it back to their room a touch earlier than the previous night, after a dinner at the hotel restaurant that Crowley had found satisfying but Aziraphale had pronounced mediocre. “TV again?” Crowley asked, and reached for the remote, but Aziraphale shook his head.

“I was...if you don’t mind, I was thinking I’d read. Tonight. If you’d like to watch television I can go somewhere else to do it, of course, the lobby or something—”

“No,” Crowley said, quickly, _ don’t leave, _“no, reading’s—that’s fine, probably nothing good on anyway.”

Aziraphale nodded, and went into his suitcase for a book, and Crowley realized that he hadn’t brought so much as a magazine along with him.

He stood there, at odds and ends, trying to decide whether it made sense to duck down to the lobby for a paper, or whether he was better off scrolling through his phone, until Aziraphale said, “Haven’t you got a book?”

“No,” Crowley admitted, “didn’t think...”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, then, as though he’d made up his mind about something, said, “I could loan you something. If you’d like.”

“Sure,” Crowley said, warily, “what’d you have in mind?”

Aziraphale went back into his suitcase, his hands fluttering slightly. “I thought...no pressure at all, you understand...but you’d mentioned being interested, and, well, I’ve finished it. My book. If you’d like to read it.” He pulled out a stack of printer paper.

“Your _ book,” _ Crowley repeated, making sure he had it right, “that you _ wrote. _You want me to read it.”

“Only if you want to!” Aziraphale said, quickly.

“Oh—” Crowley reached out and took the manuscript, before he could snatch it away. “Oh, I want to.”

So they settled in again, Aziraphale with his paperback and Crowley with what was, according to the header, Draft Number Four of Untitled Project, and sat, side by side, in their beds, in a hotel room in Leeds, and read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the part where I tell you what Office episodes this was based on. And, I mean, I can tell you it's based on "The Convention" (US edition). But. If we're going to be real, here, what happened was that I watched the Parks and Rec episode "Road Trip" immediately before sitting down to write this, and they absolutely _ weren't _ going to a convention before that and then they absolutely were. So, thanks for that, Mike Schur, you get me every time.


	6. The Promotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to weatheredlaw for beta reading!

After returning from the Sales Conference of Sexual Frustration, Crowley did his level best to treat Aziraphale the same way he always had. Which was to say: probably obviously hopelessly in love, but with a slight veneer of plausible deniability. Maintaining his composure, however, had become a great deal more difficult since their trip: one, because Crowley had started to have..._ thoughts, _about tartan pajamas, and two, because he’d now read Aziraphale’s novel, and had, frankly, no clue what to make of it.

Aziraphale had told him, when he’d returned the manuscript, a few days after they’d gotten back from Leeds, that his elevator pitch for the book was “A.S. Byatt’s _ Possession _ meets _ Cloud Atlas.” _ Crowley, who had never read either, just sort of nodded and smiled awkwardly and said that it sounded like something agents should be all over. He’d raved about the writing, of course—which hadn’t been difficult, the writing was _ good. _ Aziraphale knew how to construct a sentence (which sounded simple, but Crowley’d taken a creative writing class at university and had been fairly _ flabbergasted _ by how many people couldn’t manage that), his plot was engaging, his setting clear without getting bogged down in description, his characters...well, that was the thing. His _ characters. _

The novel was about two young scholars, at rival universities, who are thrown together to work on a project cataloguing and transcribing letters by two notable Victorian intellectuals. Over the course of the book, they discover that the Victorians very likely had an affair and that, rather than face the disapproval of society, they secretly ran away together, one faking his own suicide and the other pretending to become a hermit. While working on the project, the two scholars also come to fall in love, and the narrative slowly reveals that they are in fact the two Victorians reincarnated, and that these same two souls have been drawn together, over and over again, throughout history, always finding each other, always falling in love.

This was all very well; Crowley had maybe let a tear or two slip towards the end _(what, _they’d been in love for _six thousand years, _how was he supposed to _not_ cry at that?), but, by and large, nothing that should have necessitated any new awkwardness around Aziraphale.

Except—and Crowley _ really _ didn’t think he was wrong about this, he was _ pretty damn good _ at self-doubt but in this case even _ he _ couldn’t summon enough of it up to _ really _ think he was wrong—except, the two characters in Aziraphale’s novel? The two souls that were so in love that it transcended time? Who faced obstacle after obstacle throughout history, whether society’s disapproval or the interference of warring families or petty academic politics? Those two? They bore an _ extremely _strong resemblance to Crowley and Aziraphale. 

And what the _ hell _was Crowley supposed to do with that?

No, seriously, _ what, _ because he’d spent most of the last week reading and re-reading the passages that talked about _ high cheekbones _ and _ sarcasm as a defence mechanism _ and _ a profound need to express love through acts of service, _and alternating between wanting to drop everything and drive to Aziraphale’s house and kiss him senseless, and wanting to vomit. 

Aziraphale had been after him, in his own particular way, to tell him what he thought. Because it was Aziraphale, this consisted less of direct asks and more of gentle, guilt-inducing nudges. Crowley had handed back the manuscript saying only, “yeah, really liked it, uh, not much of a literary critic, don’t really have any notes, seems good!” While this had caused Aziraphale to beam happily in the moment, it had apparently not proved sufficient in terms of feedback. 

Because now, several times a day, it was “hmmm, I’ve just been _ wondering _ whether the _ language _ is too _ intricate _ for a mass-market audience,” and “I’m reconsidering that plot arc about the bird necklace, not certain whether it packs enough of an emotional wallop for the word count it takes up,” and “I’m just not _ sure _ if the main romance is _ believable.” _ And each of these comments was followed by a glance, or a sigh, or a hand movement that clearly said: “what do _ you _think?” 

And Crowley deflected, every time, made noncommittal grunting noises and said “yeah” in various cryptic inflections. And Aziraphale would pout, or sigh, or just generally act aggrieved, but _really, _what was Crowley supposed to say? “Uh, yeah, so, I can offer some _very well-informed _feedback on the love interest’s state of mind?” 

Although, actually, he didn’t have much feedback on that. Because, here was the disconcerting thing—Aziraphale had done a _ remarkable _ job expressing Crowley’s thoughts. Like, a _ far _ better job than Crowley ever did expressing them himself. It was flattering, but not at all comfortable, to feel so _ seen, _ so _ understood, _ so _ known. _ Not that he’d ever been good at being anything but an open book anyway, but he’d _ hoped _he’d preserved at least some mystique. 

And yet, that remarkable dissection of Crowley’s character achieved only second place when it came to Things About Aziraphale’s Novel That Kept Crowley Up At Night. First place, number one with a bullet, was occupied firmly by _ what ON EARTH is Aziraphale trying to tell me? _

At Christmas, Aziraphale had said, “If things were different…” and trailed off, and looked into the distance, as though he were imagining something. Was _ this, _ Crowley had to wonder, his way of explaining what he’d want to happen? If things were different? (And, uh, to _ what extent _ were the contents of the novel _ exactly _ what he’d want to happen, because Crowley had made a _ very _careful study of the sex scenes and was dying to know whether to extrapolate.)

And if it _ was _ some sort of message, some bizarre coded way of communicating that _ yes, _ Aziraphale _ did _feel the same way as Crowley, well, what was to be done about it? Crowley’d tried confessing his feelings. It’d gone rather spectacularly badly. He couldn’t imagine Aziraphale wanted to revisit that conversation, or to return to the state of pained awkwardness they’d inhabited in the weeks following. So what, then, was he supposed to do? Just Iet it go? 

So, although their relationship was nowhere near as frosty as it had been before the conference, there remained a certain tension, a certain strain, due to the questions that Aziraphale wouldn’t quite ask and that Crowley refused to answer.

What Crowley needed, he thought, was a _ distraction. _

He headed in to his one-on-one check-in with Gabriel not expecting much of anything—he’d run down the conference happenings right after returning, with little response. (Although he’d omitted all the most interesting bits, such as the way a few light hairs peeked out of the neck of Aziraphale’s pajama top, the fact that he hummed to himself when brushing his teeth, the rasp in his voice when he’d just woken up in the morning…) 

“Crowley!” Gabriel said, rubbing his hands together. “Big news for you.”

“Oh, really?” Crowley asked, skeptically. (The last time Gabriel had said “big news,” it had turned out to be the addition of oat milk to the coffee cart downstairs.)

Gabriel nodded, and slid a folder across the desk. “This,” he said, tapping a demonstrative finger, “is a rundown of information on our newest potential client. And here’s the thing. _ They _ came to _ us. _ They said they’re reaching out to a few different companies, getting quotes, seeing which representatives they ‘connect with’—honestly, it sounded kinda New Age-y to me, but, who cares, money’s money, right? And these folks, Crowley, they have a _ lot of it.” _

Crowley flipped open the folder. _ “Device’s Office Supplies?” _ he asked, incredulously. “They’re looking at _ us _as a potential paper supplier?”

Gabriel grinned. “Exactly! They’re sending someone over to talk with a salesman, and, since you’ve been doing such a killer job lately, I figured it could be you.” He lowered his voice in a faux-confidential manner. “And here’s the thing, Crowley. I heard from the CEO that you really wowed her with that presentation at the conference. She mentioned that we need more people like you in management. People willing to think outside the box.”

“Management?” Crowley asked. “I don’t know that I…”

“Listen,” Gabriel said, “keep this to yourself for now, but there’s a sales lead position opening up soon at the Portsmouth branch. Not posted publicly yet. They’re hoping to promote from within, but between you and me, there’s no one at Portsmouth with the chops for it. So, play your cards right, lock down this Device account, you could be looking at quite a nice little promotion for yourself.”

“Right,” said Crowley, faintly—_ sales lead, _ he hadn’t even _ begun _ to think about trying to move up at CPC, this was _ brand new— _ “uh. Thanks. I’ll take a look at the Device file, then.”

“Great!” Gabriel said. “They’ve got their representative coming by on Friday, one P.M.., so. See if they can be tempted into signing a contract on the spot, will you?”

“Sure,” Crowley said, and left Gabriel’s office.

Aziraphale shot him an odd look as he approached Reception. Well, not surprising, was it, he must’ve seemed slightly dazed, a possible _ promotion, _how would that even…

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked, just loud enough for Crowley to hear.

“Uh,” he said, tilting the folder at an angle to show Aziraphale without looking like he was showing him.

“Device’s Office Supplies?” Aziraphale asked under his breath. “We’re getting _ Device’s _as a client?”

“Could be,” Crowley said, glancing behind him to check that Gabriel was still as cheerfully oblivious as usual. “I’m, uh, supposed to meet with one of their people on Friday. See if I can tempt them into signing on the spot.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “well, I’m certain you’ll convince them. I know how good you are with your tongue.”

Crowley’s brain suddenly consisted entirely of air-raid sirens.

“Talking people into things, I mean,” Aziraphale said, hurriedly, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. 

“‘Course,” Crowley said, “yeah, I, uh, hopefully…” 

“And that’s all, is it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Me being asked to court what would be our largest client yet isn’t _ enough?” _

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not enough to explain you looking like you’ve been hit by a bus, no.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, trying to figure out if he actually wanted to tell Aziraphale about this or not—and then realizing that, yeah, he very much _ did— _“well. Gabriel mentioned that the CEO had commented on my performance at the conference—”

“Your _ wonderful _performance—”

“Eh, well, anyway, she liked it, and from what Gabriel said, I, uh, inferred, well, he _ implied, _ ah, he basically just _ said, _that if I lock down the Device account that I could get a promotion.”

“A _ promotion?” _ Aziraphale said, with as much delight as was possible for someone speaking under his breath. “Crowley, that’s _ wonderful! _ Promotion to _ what?” _

“Sales lead,” Crowley said, “in Portsmouth.”

Aziraphale’s expression went from joy to confusion. “In _ Portsmouth? _So then you—”

“I wouldn’t be here. Anymore,” Crowley said, watching his face carefully _ (would that bother you, would you miss me, would you care—) _

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, his face serious, almost impenetrable. “So we wouldn’t work together.”

Crowley’s breath caught. Did he mean—no, no, that was _ ridiculous, _surely he wasn’t wondering—“I’d still work for CPC,” Crowley said, answering the question he hardly dared hope was being asked. “Still be bound by all the same, uh, regulations. Rules.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley thought he caught disappointment in the way his gaze dropped to his desk. “I see.”

“But,” Crowley said, hurriedly, “it’s, y’know, it’s far from a sure thing. Haven’t got it yet, have I? Got to convince Device’s to sign with us, first. And then,” he added, impulsively, “who’s to say, I might not end up taking it.”

“You wouldn’t?” Aziraphale asked. “But, your _ career, _surely you want to move up—”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m pretty settled in here.” 

Aziraphale smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, it’s as you said. Cross that bridge when you come to it.”

_ “If _I come to it,” Crowley said, and, rapping his knuckles on Aziraphales desk in a “don’t-jinx-this” gesture, returned to his desk, Device file in hand. 

He stared into space for several minutes before flicking it open. It probably wasn’t going to happen, anyway. Device’s had most likely already internally decided on one of the bigger paper companies, and were just using CPC as a bargaining chip to drive down their prices. Whoever they sent was just going to be some lackey, no one with any real power. Crowley was definitely _ not _ getting offered this promotion, because that was _ not _ how his life went, and he consequently was _ not _going to have to make any difficult decisions about what, really, he hoped to get out of his career at CPC.

Because, to be completely honest, he knew quite well what he hoped to get out of his career at CPC. And it apparently didn’t want him back.

* * *

As Crowley had expected, Device’s didn’t send their head of purchasing, or their CFO, or anyone with any actual decision-making power. They sent a young woman with round glasses, long, dark hair, and a vaguely Goth sense of style, who probably wasn’t more than five years Crowley’s junior but whose cool factor nevertheless made him feel approximately eighty.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, calling from Reception, “the young lady from Device’s is here to see you.”

Crowley shot him a thumbs-up and made a mental note to tell Aziraphale that referring to business contacts as “young lady” was likely not the best idea in the year 2019.

“I’m Anathema,” the girl said, sticking her hand out for Crowley to shake. “Anathema Device.”

Crowley took it. She had a good handshake: firm, but without trying too hard. A handshake that said that she didn’t particularly care what you thought of her handshake. “Device?” he asked. “As in…”

“As in Device’s Office Supplies, yes, it’s a family business,” Anathema said, with the air of someone who had explained this many times before.

“Right,” Crowley said. “Well, uh, I’ve booked us the conference room, if you’ll follow me—”

“Actually,” Anathema said, “let’s have lunch.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I haven’t eaten. You haven’t eaten. There’s a great vegan place five minutes from here that’ll have a _ way _better atmosphere than your conference room.”

“Uh,” Crowley said (well, this was what expense accounts were for, wasn’t it?) “uh, yeah, sure, if that’s what you’d prefer, happy to have our meeting off-site...hang on, how d’you know I haven’t eaten?”

“Have you?” Anathema asked.

“Uh. No. But how did you _ know?” _

“Come on,” Anathema said, “will you drive? Our reservation’s in ten minutes and they’re pretty terrible about holding tables.”

“Reservation?” Aziraphale mouthed to him silently as Crowley grabbed his coat.

Crowley just shrugged.

Crowley refrained from any sales talk on the drive to lunch—although he couldn’t get much of a handle on what Anathema’s...whole _ deal _ was, he’d found it was best, when you were unsure of a client’s interest, to hold off as long as possible on the hard sell. Don’t start off by asking for price points and going on about your customer service—make a human connection first, get them on your side, get them invested in the relationship, _ then _go in for the kill.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

So when they sat down at their table in the vegan place Crowley had never been to, and flipped open their menus (and Crowley flipped his closed again almost immediately, because it seemed like every other item prominently featured _ kale), _Crowley was all ready to start off the conversation with a remark about the weather, or the traffic, or the particularly odd-looking bird they’d passed on their way in.

But before he could open his mouth, Anathema flicked her menu closed with a decisive finger, folded her hands on the table, and said, “In the interest of being completely straightforward with you, I feel you should know that nothing you say or do here will impact Device’s decision as to our new paper supplier.”

Crowley, who’d pretty much figured that, but hadn’t expected to have it stated so bluntly, said, “Ah.”

Anathema waited, presumably for him to elaborate. He didn’t. There didn’t seem to be much else to say. 

“Do you know why?” Anathema prompted.

“Ah,” Crowley said, again. “Is it because you’ve already decided to go with someone else, and this is just a courtesy visit from someone with no real purchasing power?”

“Wrong,” said Anathema, “on literally every count.”

“Which means…” Crowley asked, trying to figure out the negative of all his previous statements and coming up with nonsense.

“Which means that we have already decided to go with your company, and this is a visit that might well end up being somewhat _ dis _courteous, by someone with a very great deal of purchasing power.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You?”

_ “That’s _the part you’re choosing to focus on?” Anathema asked. “Not the news that you’ve just landed your employer’s new largest client?”

“Still processing that bit, to be completely honest,” Crowley said.

Anathema’s mouth quirked in what might’ve been a smile. Certainly, it was the closest she’d come to one. “Very well. Yes, I know I’m young, and I know I don’t exactly look like a corporate big-shot, but that’s not exactly the culture we have, at Device’s. You should see our CEO.”

“Yeah?”

“My aunt Agnes. Looks like a suburban mum, is actually the canniest businesswoman you’ll ever meet. Actually,” Anathema continued, “you _ have _ met her.”

“I have?” 

“You probably don’t remember,” Anathema said. “It was a few months ago, at our location in your industrial park. She was working the till.”

“The _ CEO _ was working the till?”

Anathema nodded. “She likes to drop in on the different stores, work a shift, see how things are going. Saw you and your boyfriend in there, getting a notebook.”

“My—oh, no, she, ah, she misunderstood. He’s not my boyfriend.”

Anathema gave him an odd look. “Agnes is never wrong.”

Crowley laughed nervously. “I mean, everyone’s wrong_ sometimes.” _

“Not Agnes,” Anathema said with what appeared to be total sincerity. “She has unerring business instincts.”

“Well,” Crowley hedged, realizing that, yes, he was apparently_ accepting _ this ridiculous premise, _ “business _ instincts, that’s not the same as being _ never wrong _ about, y’know, _ anything. _It’s like the Pope, yeah? Catholic Church says he’s infallible, but that’s only in matters of faith and doctrine, not about, like, two plus two, or whether or not that tie works with those trousers.”

Anathema shrugged. “I don’t know about the Pope. I just know about Aunt Agnes.”

“Right,” said Crowley, “well…” He realized it was, perhaps, not the wisest sales tactic to be having this particular argument with a client. 

“And Aunt Agnes said,” Anathema continued, “that from now on we’d be going with Celestial Paper Company for our paper needs, and that was that.” 

The waiter came by, just then, and took their orders (Crowley selected, mostly at random, the least objectionable-looking quinoa bowl, and Anathema got a beet-and-turmeric smoothie). 

“So,” Anathema said, once he’d left, “if you have a contract, or whatever, I can sign that right now, or we can wait till we get back to the office. Whatever’s easier.”

“Uh,” Crowley said, “don’t you want to talk about terms? Pricing? Any of that?”

Anathema shrugged. “Sure, if you want.”

Crowley blinked. “Uh. Okay. Well, so, we have several different options for cardstock, colors ranging from light cream to eggshell…”

* * *

They returned to the office a little after two. Anathema had, contrary to her eccentric appearance, showed a great deal of business acumen during their conversation, asking pointed and intelligent questions. None of Crowley’s usual evasive tactics, his half-truths and exaggerations, did much good, so he’d abandoned them fairly quickly in favor of straight talk. Honestly, it was refreshing, telling a customer the truth. And Anathema had put all _ her _cards on the table up front; it only seemed fair for him to do the same.

“So,” Crowley said, holding the door open for Anathema, “if you want to head into the conference room, it’s right over here, and I’ll just draw up the papers to make this thing official and be right with you.”

“Excellent,” Anathema said, making her way to the conference room, and Crowley turned to Reception.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked. “Drawing up the _ papers? _Does that mean what I think it does?”

Crowley grinned. “It sure does.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, Crowley, that’s _ excellent, _I knew you could do it!”

“Well,” Crowley admitted, “I didn’t really do much. Turns out their CEO thinks she has some sort of sixth sense, or something, and she’d already decided to go with CPC. Anathema basically told me the deal was done as soon as we sat down.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “oh, I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not,” Crowley said, shuffling the sales papers around on Aziraphale’s desk. “Oh, it turns out that we actually met the CEO, funnily enough.”

“We? As in you and me?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, looking down at the papers, “as in us. She, uh, it turns out she was working the till, at the Device’s in the industrial park, that day we went over at lunch.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Oh,” he said, face clearing, “oh, when you bought me my notebook. So kind of you.”

“Ah, yeah, exactly,” Crowley said, not mentioning the bit about _ your boyfriend _ and _ Agnes is never wrong, _ because, well, clearly she _ had _been, this time, anyway.

“Did you know,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve actually been using it for notes for my novel.” He reached under his desk and pulled out the notebook, flipping through the pages to show Crowley. They were covered in Aziraphale’s almost supernaturally neat handwriting, some with bullet points and numbers, some just stream-of-consciousness. “I’m revising, of course, well, you know what they say, writing is re-writing, and all.” He sighed, and flicked the notebook shut. “I only wish I had a better idea of what was working and what wasn’t.” 

Crowley squirmed. _ Really, _ one of his veiled feedback requests, _ now, _right as Crowley was on the edge of closing the biggest sale of his career?

Except, he thought, as he sent Aziraphale a talk-to-you-later grin and carried the papers in to Anathema, the thing was, Crowley didn’t give a damn about this sale, not the way that Aziraphale cared about his book.

“Right,” he said, as Anathema handed back the last paper, “well, congratulations, looks like you’re CPC’s newest client, Device’s Office Supplies.”

“Congratulations to _ you,” _Anathema said dryly. “I expect your boss’ll be thrilled.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “he will, actually, d’you want to come in and say hi, I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

“That’s all right,” Anathema said quickly, “no need.”

Crowley grinned. Maybe Agnes’ instincts extended to knowing which branch managers were complete asses.

“Well, then,” he said, “allow me to walk you out, and I’ll be in touch shortly.”

“Sounds good,” said Anathema, extending a hand for Crowley to shake.

They passed Reception, of course, on their way out the door, and Aziraphale said, smiling brightly at Anathema, “Have a lovely day!”

“Thanks,” she said, “you too, good luck with the novel, hope you get an agent soon, I think it’s a _ great _premise. It’ll really resonate with your audience,” she added, and winked at Crowley before heading out the door.

“You told her about your novel?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, did _ you _tell her?”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “No.”

Gabriel emerged from his office, just then, wearing a grin that would, Crowley thought, have been wider than his actual face, if such a thing were possible.

“Did I hear what I thought I heard?” he asked, slapping Crowley on the back.

Crowley winced. “Uh, if you mean, did I sign Device’s, then, yeah, you did.”

“Awesome work!” Gabriel said, and slapped Crowley again.

“It’s really cool that you feel the need to express your happiness with me by means of physical violence,” Crowley said under his breath, mostly for Aziraphale’s benefit.

“What’s that?” Gabriel asked.

“Nothing,” Crowley said, and forced himself to smile. “But, yeah, we got Device’s. Three cheers.”

“Come on!” Gabriel said. “Get _ psyched! _ This is gonna make us look _ so _ good in front of head office. And,” he said, winking at Crowley, who shuddered instinctively, “I have a very strong feeling you’ll be hearing a little something about a town beginning with _ P _before very long.”

Crowley let out a breath in relief as Gabriel moved away. _ “Why _do I always feel grosser after talking to him?”

“It’s like poison ivy,” Aziraphale said. “Spreads via contact.”

“Right,” Crowley said, grinning. “Hey, uh, I know I haven’t given you feedback on your novel yet. I’m really sorry, I’ve just been letting it marinate, sort of, in my brain, trying to get a handle on what I think of it…” _ Trying to get a handle on what you’re telling me, _ if _ you’re telling me anything… _

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, blushing, “oh, that’s quite all right, I understand. I _ did _ hope to hear what you thought in a bit more _ detail, _ you know, you’re the only person I’ve shown it to, so far…”

“Ah,” Crowley said, intelligently.

“But,” Aziraphale added, quickly, “that’s entirely on _ me, _you know, no pressure on you at all, I completely understand that it’s a lot to ask of a friend—”

“No,” Crowley said, hurriedly, “no, look, I, uh...if you want help. On your revision. Maybe I could look at the notebook? See what you’re planning to do, make some notes of my own?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, all right, that’s...of course, you’d prefer to write it down, I quite understand, and it probably _ will _help for you to read what I’ve written, why bother to talk it out when I’ve got it all down there.”

_ Because I can’t bear it if we talk about this, _ Crowley thought, _ seeing it written’s bad enough, can’t imagine having to look you in the face and tell you what I think, hear what you have to say about this fascinating, frustrating story. _

“Here you go,” said Aziraphale, handing him the notebook. “Now—” he gave a little laugh, the kind that said “this isn’t funny to me at all, but I’m pretending it is so that I don’t seem to care too much” (Crowley was very familiar with this specific laugh, given how frequently he used it himself) — “do take good care of it, please, I haven’t got a backup, or anything, so…”

“I’ll guard it with my life,” Crowley said, faux-dramatically.

“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Ah—” He paused for a second. “So, it sounds like you’ll be getting that promotion, then.”

Crowley shrugged. “Who knows? Things never come through the way you think they will, especially around here. You know that.”

“Yes, well…” Aziraphale said. “If you’re offered it. You’ll take it? Move to Portsmouth?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, and then, not giving himself time to think _ is this a good idea, _“do you think I should?”

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment. “Yes,” he said, at last. “I do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to imperiousheiress for giving me the idea for what became the plot of Aziraphale's book!
> 
> This chapter isn't based on one particular Office episode but I took elements from "Conflict Resolution" and "Casino Night" as well as "Business School" (all US edition) and "New Girl" and "Judgement" (UK edition).


	7. The Inferno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to weatheredlaw for beta reading!

On Monday, Crowley got offered the promotion.

“Congratulations,” Gabriel said, sliding the offer letter across his desk, “sales lead! You’ve really earned this, been doing great work the past couple of months. That girl from Device’s was _ very _enthusiastic.”

“Really?” Crowley asked, unable to imagine Anathema as “very enthusiastic.”

“Well,” Gabriel hedged, “she was more, just, _ assured. _In everything she said. Which was very positive, about you.”

“Great,” Crowley said.

Gabriel nudged the offer letter closer to him. “So. Go ahead and sign, salary’s on the paper, I think you’ll find it pretty darn good, compared to what you’re making now—and don’t forget, that _ doesn’t _include commission.” He plucked a pen from the cup on his desk and offered it to Crowley.

Crowley waved it away. “Actually...would it be all right if I took a few days to think about it?”

_ “Think about it?” _ Gabriel asked, incredulously. “What, are you trying to get more money out of them, or something? Because I’m pretty sure they’re not going to budge, but I can see if there’s room to go up at all. For _ you,” _he added in a vaguely guilt-trippy voice.

“No,” Crowley said, hurriedly, “no, it’s not the money, it’s just...I’m not sure if I want it. To leave. Go to Portsmouth.”

Gabriel blinked. “Why not? I mean, Swindon’s home, but, come on, what’s so great about _ here? _ Oh—” his face took on a revoltingly paternal expression— “reluctant to leave your mentor, is that it? Well, Crowley, I’m really flattered to have been the best boss you ever had, but I _ promise, _if you want to, we can stay in touch. But you have to spread your wings and fly the coop, now. Don’t let our personal connection keep you from moving forward in your career.”

Crowley resisted the urge to gag. “Uh. Something like that. No, I just...I need a few days to think it over. Make sure it’s the right move. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Gabriel said, shrugging. “Well, I can give you until end of day this Friday, but that’s it. All right?”

“All right,” said Crowley, feeling very _ not _right.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley approached reception, his tone low enough that Crowley couldn’t make out any emotion other than urgency.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, with forced nonchalance. “I, uh, they offered it to me. The promotion. In Portsmouth.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, well, that’s _ wonderful, _ Crowley, it really is, I am...is this odd? I feel rather _ proud _of you, even though, of course, I had nothing to do with it…”

_ You had everything to do with it, _ Crowley thought, _ wouldn’t be at this stupid company still if it weren’t for you, wouldn’t have had my sales numbers go up if you hadn’t broken my heart at Christmas, wouldn’t be standing here debating whether or not to take an objectively better position if it weren’t for the fact that it meant leaving you… _

“Uh,” Crowley said, cutting him off, “I, uh, I didn’t accept. Yet,” he added hastily. “I said I needed time. To think. I mean, I told you before, I wasn’t sure.” _ And you said you thought I should take it. _

“Oh,” Aziraphale said again, and the inflection was different now in a way that Crowley couldn’t quite define. “And you. You’ll think about it?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, willing him to say _ please don’t go, _knowing that he wouldn’t. “You said,” he continued, because apparently torturing himself was fun, now, “you thought I should, yeah?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “it’s a better job, isn’t it? With better pay? And you, you want to move up, don’t you?”

Crowley shrugged. “I dunno,” he said, and realized as he did that it was actually _ true. _ “I never saw myself as management, at all. Well, never saw myself in Sales at all, really, but definitely not as a sales _ lead.” _

Aziraphale nodded, his face tense, as though he were solving a particularly difficult maths problem in his head. “I see. You need to figure out if it’s what you really want for your career.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said. “But, uh, I’ve got till Friday, so. Plenty of time.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, excited, “you should make a pro-con list! Those are _ so _ helpful. Really list it all out. Although, of course, it’s also very important to go with your _ instincts. _But, I find, sometimes, making the list lets me puzzle out what I really want to do.”

“A pro-con list,” Crowley echoed. “Yeah, I’ll...I’ll try that.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, and smiled, and this time it _ did _ reach his eyes, “I’m glad, anyway, that we’ll still have you for Thursday. We _ will _still have you on Thursday, I assume?”

“Oh yeah,” Crowley said, “not going anywhere, what’s Thursday?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Gabriel’s latest team-building idiocy.”

_ “Oh,” _Crowley said, remembering the email that had gone out several weeks ago and that he had ignored entirely, “the, what is it, the escape room.”

“Have you ever done one?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, “not really my thing, is it, enclosed spaces, makes me a bit anxious, I guess.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale asked, concerned, “will you be all right, then? I’m certain you can get out of having to do it, if...”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, cringing at himself, “I’ll be fine, just got to prepare mentally, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s good, then,” Aziraphale said, “do let me know if you need any, I don’t know, any help with it.”

“Eh,” Crowley said, and then, having a _ brilliant _ and slightly unethical idea— “but, y’know, when we’re there, if you could. Uh. Stay close. To me. Might help, a bit, if I get anxious.” It occurred to him as he spoke that this was, perhaps, not the suave and sophisticated persona he should theoretically be projecting around Aziraphale, but, really, how successful had _ that _ever been?

“Oh, of _ course,” _Aziraphale said, “I’ll stay so close you’ll want to be rid of me, don’t worry.”

“Nah,” Crowley said, because, after all, he barely had anything to lose anymore. “Never want that.”

Aziraphale looked down at his desk, his cheeks reddening. “Ah,” he said, in a strained sort of voice, “I, well, I should be getting back to work, given that we’ll be out all day Thursday, wouldn’t want to fall behind…”

“Right,” said Crowley, taking the out. “Same. Talk to you later, then.” He slumped back to his desk, noticing, when he got there, that Aziraphale’s face was still slightly flushed, even though he’d turned back to his computer.

* * *

Crowley had until Friday to make a decision about Portsmouth, so, naturally, he had no intention of thinking about it until Thursday at approximately nine-forty-five p.m., because why do now what you could put off till tomorrow? Particularly when it involved confronting a few thorny truths about the way he’d been living his life for the past few years. He was nearly _ thirty, _ for crying out loud. Time to stop faffing about and pretending like he didn’t have to choose an actual _ career. _

Still, despite his best efforts to shove Moving To Portsmouth into the cobwebbed drawer at the back of his mind that also included Things I Wish I’d Said To My Dad and Bad Sartorial Choices of the Mid-2000s, the thought kept popping up over the next couple of days, like a burr in the toe of his shoe, pricking at him in odd moments. He even did as Aziraphale had suggested, sat down at his desk and started to make a pro-con list, tried to lay it all out in black and white.

It didn’t work. Because, of course, there weren’t very many pros to staying in Swindon. Oh, yeah, he didn’t really _ know _ that he wanted the sales lead position, felt like that might be committing a little too hard to a job that had never really been supposed to be his _ life, _ but it made more sense to take it, make more money, do something marginally more prestigious and interesting while he looked around for his _ vocation, _or whatever. 

No, the only pro to staying in Swindon was currently standing at the fax machine, frowning at a piece of paper and stabbing randomly at various buttons. 

But it wasn’t—he wasn’t—they weren’t—it wasn’t ever going to _ happen, _ that was the thing that Crowley had been pretending not to know for the last several months. And mooning over somebody who didn’t want you back was not only _ severely _ uncool, it was also more than a little _ creepy. _ He couldn’t just stick around here, gazing starry-eyed at Aziraphale and continuing to collect scraps of reciprocation, sticking them up on a mental bulletin board and connecting them by string like some lovelorn conspiracy theorist, for the next few decades. He needed to _ move on, _actually download a dating app like he’d been pretending to intend to do, meet some new people, people whom he wasn’t expressly forbidden from loving.

He crumpled up the list and tossed it into the bin. This was Future Crowley’s problem.

Gabriel came out of his office and clapped his hands together. “All right, everyone! Bus to the escape room leaves in twenty minutes, so, now would be a good time to gather any personal belongings, use the facilities, finish up any last-minute work!”

“Please note,” said Beelzebub, standing up, “that the bus _ will _ be returning here afterwards so that you can get to your cars, but that Celestial Paper Company does _ not _accept any liability for any items left behind here during this team-building trip. Nor any items left on the bus while we’re in the escape room.”

Gabriel made a face. “Jeez, wow, way to make it un-fun.”

Beelzebub rolled her eyes and sat back down. 

Crowley started throwing things into his briefcase, semi-haphazardly, trying not to crush or break anything vaguely important. He sifted through the contents of his desk, trying to figure out what he didn’t need to bring with him. Under a pile of old order forms, he found Aziraphale’s notebook, the one he’d bought for him at Device’s, with all the notes about his novel in it. Crowley’d read through all Aziraphale’s notes, which were frustratingly vague (understandable, given that they’d presumably been written for Aziraphale’s own reference rather than anyone else’s), and even made a few of his own, but he wasn’t quite ready to give it back yet. He added it to the briefcase without really thinking about it, figuring it was safer coming along with him than left back at the office, given that he _ knew _Sandalphon had been combing through his desk again for evidence of the wrongdoing he was so sure Crowley had committed.

His computer pinged with a Slack message.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Are you certain you’re all right coming along? I’ve no doubt you can get out of it if you need to, even if it’s not an official accommodation or anything I can’t see Beelzebub forcing you to go.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Truthfully, she looks like she’d be glad of an excuse to stay behind herself.

**CROWLEY: **nah, i’ll be fine, it’s not like we’ll really be trapped in there or anything, right?

**AZIRAPHALE: **No, I’ve heard that the door you come in through isn’t locked, and I do believe you can ask the staff for help at any time.

**CROWLEY: **so i’ll be fine!

**CROWLEY: **what, trying to get rid of me?

**CROWLEY: **i am so certain that you are about to be completely insufferable that i don’t even mind

**AZIRAPHALE: **Insufferable????

**CROWLEY: ** ummmm yeah. first time someone disagrees with you about how to solve a puzzle you’ll be huffing all over the place about why _ you’re _right

**CROWLEY: **and god forbid you solve one yourself

**CROWLEY: **you’ll never let the rest of us forget it

**AZIRAPHALE: ** This is _ slander _ and I will _ not _stand for it.

**CROWLEY: **show me the lie tho

**AZIRAPHALE: **Regardless…

**AZIRAPHALE: **I am certainly not trying to get rid of you.

**AZIRAPHALE: ** In _ any _sense.

**AZIRAPHALE: **What was it you said the other day?

**AZIRAPHALE: **I’d never want that.

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, but found no clues in his expression. No idea how to reconcile “I’d never want to get rid of you” with “You should go to Portsmouth.” No sense of whether Aziraphale even _ knew _that he was tying Crowley’s heart into knots with every word.

“Okay,” said Gabriel, heaving a backpack over his shoulder, “bus is here, let’s go!”

Crowley closed out of the Slack window and followed his coworkers outside, Aziraphale a few steps behind him. The bus idled in the car park, and Gabriel jogged up to it, clapping his hands a few times.

“All right!” he said, cupping his hands around his mouth. “All aboard for our escape room adventure!” 

Sandalphon let out a half-hearted “woo,” but the rest of the staff looked just as unenthused as Crowley felt. If nothing else, Crowley figured, they would build team solidarity over hating this team-building idea.

Gabriel stood by the bus door, ushering each employee on with a cheery hurry-up wave of his hand. Crowley took a few steps forward, to ensure that he’d be on the bus before Aziraphale. It was, he thought, as he accepted Gabriel’s offered high-five, a test, of sorts. He swung into the window portion of an empty two-seater near the middle of the bus, watching to see whether Aziraphale would take the seat next to him or find his own spot.

Just as Crowley was telling himself firmly not to read anything into it if Aziraphale went for a different seat, that he likely just wanted some alone time, that lots of people’s _ instincts _were just to go for an empty spot on a bus, Aziraphale settled down into the seat next to him.

So, of course, he immediately started reading things into _ that, _which was exactly as illogical, but much more pleasant.

The bus ride was mercifully short, which meant that the time Gabriel spent trying to get everyone to sing the SpongeBob SquarePants theme song was kept to a minimum, which was still, in Crowley’s opinion, far too much time. He made faces at Aziraphale, who made faces back, and tried not to think about the very small amount of space between their thighs on the bus seat, or how Aziraphale’s shoulder kept bumping his when he turned around to tell Michael what he thought about some book they’d both been reading. Despite the dubious soundtrack, it wasn’t, all in all, a bad ride.

The escape room was located in a former warehouse that looked like it’d seen better days: the paint was chipped, there were graffiti tags lining the sides of the building, and the general effect seemed to suggest that if you or a loved one had been diagnosed with mesothelioma, this was probably where you’d got it.

“Escape rooms have themes, right?” Uriel asked, as they disembarked. “Does this one?”

Gabriel grinned. “Yeah! It’s really great, it’s _ Dante’s Inferno, _we’re going to have to make our way through the nine circles of Hell in order to get out!”

Aziraphale sighed. “Somehow,” he said, under his breath, “I _ don’t _think Virgil will be heavily featured here.”

Crowley snorted. “What, you don’t sense a deep and profound knowledge of literature contained within these walls?”

“In fact,” said Aziraphale, the corner of his mouth quirking, “I do _ not.” _

The inside of the facility was a good deal more pleasant than the outside (although, Crowley thought, it’d have been hard for it to have been _ less _ pleasant). There were several easy chairs in the waiting area, along with a bank of lockers for guests to store their belongings while they went through the escape room. While Gabriel checked in with the older couple manning the front desk, Crowley stuffed his briefcase into a locker and pocketed the key. He _ did _keep his phone on him, though, despite the sign suggesting not to. Aziraphale, putting his own phone in a locker, gave him a reproachful look, but Crowley just shrugged, because what were they going to do, kick him out? 

“We are _ so _excited to have your group joining us today,” said the woman from the front desk, beaming at them generally. “Now, if anyone here hasn’t done an escape room before, the general concept is fairly simple. You’ll be led into a room that contains a number of puzzles and clues; your task is to solve them and find the way out in under an hour. If you need to ask for a hint, you certainly can, but we do have some teams that prefer to push through on their own power. But if you would like our help, I’m Tracy and this is Mr. Shadwell, and we’ll be available the entire time should you ask for us. Any questions, dears?”

“Yeah,” said Hastur, not raising his hand, “is brute force an available option?”

Tracy blinked. “Um. No. Please do not break any of the items or furniture within the room.”

Hastur scowled.

“Honestly, I’m just glad he _ asked,” _Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale stifled a laugh.

“All right,” said Tracy, “well, then, if there aren’t any more questions, the room’s right this way, clock starts as soon as you’re all in!”

Crowley had to duck his head to get through the doorway, which didn’t bode well for his comfort inside the room itself. But once he got in and looked around, it wasn’t so bad—tacky decorations themed with the seven deadly sins, various menacing-looking pictures of what were presumably demons, or devils, or something, obviously fake blood spatters on the walls. It was plenty large, too, he realized with relief, and the door they’d come through remained reassuringly open behind them. 

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale murmured from behind him.

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, actually, seems like it’ll be fine.”

“Oh, _ good,” _Aziraphale said, and then, hurriedly: “but I’ll be sure and stay close regardless, can’t be too safe, can we?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, doing his best to hide a smile. “Good point.”

“All _ right,” _Gabriel said, gleefully, nearly bouncing up and down with excitement. “Where do we start?”

“There’s a lock over here,” Dagon called out. “Needs a six-letter passcode.”

“And this box has a four-digit _ number _code,” said Michael, from the opposite corner.

“All right, all right,” Gabriel said, “let’s find some codes, then!”

Aziraphale reached up to a shelf a little ways above his head, bringing down what looked like a notebook of some kind.

“Trust you to go right for the books, yeah?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale just smiled. “I’ve got something here!” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, waving the notebook in the air. “Looks like...yellow box, green box, red box, blue box.” He flipped through the pages. “And that’s it. Well, not exactly winning the Booker Prize, is it, but it’s likely tied to _ something…” _He glanced around.

“What about these?” Crowley asked, gesturing to a painting representing AVARICE, which featured a miser sitting on an opulent throne. “Look, there’s jewels on the throne, in those colours...it’s probably to do with that.”

“Oh, _ yes,” _Aziraphale said, pulling a pen from his pocket, “yes, look, there’s five yellow ones, two green, four red, five blue…” He jotted down the numbers in the notebook. “So, in that order, then, 5245 ought to be the code to something.”

“Try this one, I guess?” Michael said, gesturing at the box next to her.

Aziraphale bustled over eagerly. Crowley followed behind at a more sedate pace, not sure whether he was just contagiously catching Aziraphale’s excitement or if this was actually _ fun. _

Aziraphale bent over the box, flicking the numbers on the padlock back and forth until it clicked open.

“Oh, _ look,” _ he said, turning up to Crowley with a delighted smile, “we’ve _ got _it.”

“What’s in the box?” Ligur called.

Aziraphale opened it with great care. “It’s a _ key,” _ he said, reverently holding up a large brass specimen to the group. “Now, our question _ is, _ what does the key _ unlock?” _

“One of these, I expect,” Crowley said, surveying a pair of identical-looking doors.

“We’ve found the way out _ already?” _asked Sandalphon, a hint of smugness creeping into his voice.

Uriel rolled her eyes. “No, idiot, it’ll be a side room or something, don’t be daft.”

“All right,” said Beelzebub hastily, “let’s refrain from name-calling, shall we?”

“Easier to do that if we could also _ refrain _ from stupid suggestions,” Uriel muttered.

“Oh-kay,” said Gabriel, “this is team-_building, _let’s remember! Keep it positive!”

“Well, easiest way to find out what’s behind there is to unlock it,” Aziraphale said reasonably, “so…” He hurried over to join Crowley next to the two doors, trying the key in the first one without success, and then in the other, which clicked open. “Oh, _ wonderful,” _said Aziraphale. He pocketed the key and stepped inside. Crowley, without really thinking about it, followed him.

There wasn’t much to see, really, just a smaller room, big enough for both of them but not by much. It was decorated in much the same style as the larger room, with a poster featuring LUST and what were probably supposed to be sensual and sumptuous furnishings.

“Well?” Michael called, from outside. “Any clues?”

“Don’t see anything immediately,” Aziraphale said, lifting a cushion, “but we’ll poke around a bit.”

“Yes, good,” said Gabriel, “you two stay in there, see if you can find anything, the rest of us will keep looking out here.”

“I’ve found a compass, I think,” came a voice (Dagon’s?), and through the open door, Crowley could see the rest of the staff moving to cluster around some small object. Hastur, with his accustomed clumsiness, brushed past the door on his way by, with enough force that it slammed shut.

“Ugh,” said Crowley, and went to go open it.

There wasn’t a handle on the inside. Crowley groaned.

“What’s wrong?” asked Aziraphale, who was still rooting around the faux-velvet upholstery of a small bench in the corner. 

“Door won’t open,” said Crowley, “not from the inside.” He raised his voice. “Oi! Someone out there, open the door, will you?” 

“I’ve got you,” said Ligur. There was a rattling noise from the other side of the door. “Hmm.”

“Hmm _ what?” _demanded Crowley, whose breathing was starting to grow shallow.

“The, uh, the door,” Ligur said. “It’s locked. Who’s got the key?”

“Erm,” said Aziraphale, from the back of the room. “I have.”

“Will it fit through the crack in the door?” Ligur asked.

Aziraphale came forward, bent down, tried to push the key under the door. It wouldn’t fit. He tried the crack next to the jamb next, Crowley hovering anxiously over him.

“No luck,” said Aziraphale, at last. “We’ll have to call the staff, could one of you go—”

“No!” Gabriel cut in. “No, we’re not getting a _ hint, _ we’re getting through this as a _ team, _no help from anyone outside!”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Michael.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, through the door, uncomfortably aware of the strain in his voice, “it’s not really a _ hint, _is it, we’ve already found the key.”

“Mmm,” said Gabriel, but just then Dagon’s voice broke through.

“Look, the compass is the code to this six-digit padlock—”

“Oh! Let me see!” Gabriel called, and Crowley could hear him hurry away from the door.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley turned to face him, saw the concern written in his furrowed forehead. “We could yell again, I’m sure Beelzebub will make him go get Tracy if we insist on it.”

“Nah,” said Crowley, picturing the humiliation of yelling for Personnel to come help, like a child, or a coward, or something. “It’s, ah, it’s all right, already been like twenty minutes since we started, hasn’t it, can’t be stuck in here much longer before time’s up.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. 

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale asked. He paused, and then added, more softly, “If you’d like, I can say it’s me, you know, that I’m the one who’s anxious—”

“I’m not _ anxious,” _Crowley snapped, and immediately regretted it. “Sorry,” he said, quickly. “that’s—it’s nice of you to offer, but I—I’ll be all right. We can wait it out.”

Aziraphale shrugged, sat down on the bench, and patted the open seat next to him.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. 

“Come on,” said Aziraphale, sighing, “might as well be comfortable.”

Crowley shook his head and leaned against the wall instead. “I’ll be comfortable standing,” he said, because really, about the only thing that could’ve caused him _ more _anxiety would be the hyperawareness of every place their bodies might touch, sitting next to each other.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Very well, then, if you’re going to be like that—” And he stood up, and crossed the small distance between them in two short steps, and took Crowley’s trembling hands in his.

Crowley let out an involuntary, embarrassing squawk of surprise.

“Your hands always give you away, you know,” Aziraphale said, conversationally, running a thumb across Crowley’s knuckles. “Took me a while to catch on, but I’ve got your measure now.”

Crowley, who felt a soaring heat in his stomach, growing higher every time Aziraphale moved his thumb, reflected bitterly that at least he _ had _been distracted from his claustrophobia.

“So,” Aziraphale said, “we’d better talk, take your mind off of things, yes?”

Crowley’s mind was running to all sorts of places, most of which were entirely inappropriate for the workplace (even if their current workplace was one where they were surrounded by pictures of what were presumably succubi in various states of undress).

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Very well,” said Aziraphale, in even tones, looking directly into Crowley’s eyes, “let’s see, what shall we—oh. I know. Have you given any thought,” he asked, breaking the eye contact to look down at their joined hands, “to that position in Portsmouth?”

“Uh, yeah,” Crowley said—great, they could talk about _ this _ now, that was just _ dandy— _“I, er, I did what you suggested, made a pro-con list.”

“And?”

Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t conclusive.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, and looked up to meet his eyes again.

Crowley swallowed.

“So you haven’t decided, then?”

And they were here, trapped in this small room, holding hands, and Crowley’s every nerve was frayed beyond what he’d thought possible, he had less than 24 hours to make a decision, now, and Aziraphale was gazing at him with _ something _in his eyes, something beyond simple friendly concern, and oh, hell, what did he have to lose at this point anyway?

“If I don’t go,” he said, hearing the words come out as though spoken by someone else, someone _ brave, _“it’s because of you.”

He saw Aziraphale’s lips part, heard his sharp intake of breath.

“Why?” he asked, and his voice—Crowley could have _ laughed, _ almost, at the tremor in it, how uncertain he sounded, how disbelieving, as though he didn’t know— _ how _could he not know?

“Because,” he said, and, Christ, he could _ hear _his own heart breaking— “I’m in love with you.”

Aziraphale yanked his hands away from Crowley’s, took a step back, like he’d been slapped. “I—” he began.

“I just thought,” said Crowley, miserably, “that I should say it aloud. At least once.”

Aziraphale shook his head, wet his lips, like he was about to speak, and then— 

The fire alarm went off.

“Do you think this is part of it?” Sandalphon asked, from the other side of the door.

A voice—Shadwell’s, maybe—crackled over a loudspeaker. “This is not a drill. Please exit the building at once. This is not a drill, again, please exit the building at once.”

“Oh my _ God!” _ Gabriel yelled, “we’re all going to _ die!” _

“Don’t be an _ idiot,” _ said Michael sharply, “just _ move—” _

A flurry of footsteps, then, outside, rushing past them.

“What do we—” Aziraphale asked, his eyes wide.

Crowley gritted his teeth. Apparently he hadn’t yet reached his stupidity quota for the day. “Stay back, will you?”

Unquestioningly, Aziraphale flattened himself against the back wall, and Crowley took a deep breath, and, trying not to think about how ridiculous this would look if he failed, kicked down the door.

Fortunately, the door was apparently just as shoddy as the rest of the building, and it fell away obligingly.

“Come on,” Crowley said, and they stepped out into the main room, coughing a bit from the smoke. 

He felt Aziraphale’s hand grasping at his, and took it, forgetting entirely to be concerned about implications in the face of the overwhelming impulse to _ get out. _They muddled through the room, eyes stinging, the smoke not so thick that they couldn’t see but thick enough that there were a few near-falls from tripping over boxes. 

Through the door into the waiting area, and then the outer door, and Crowley blinked his eyes open all the way, sucked in a breath of fresh air. Aziraphale had let go of his hand, at some point, and was stumbling away from the building, towards the rest of the group. Crowley followed.

“Oh, thank _ God,” _ said Beelzebub as they approached. “I’d _ completely _forgotten, and we got out here and started counting off, and if we’d left you two in there—”

“Aww,” said Crowley, unexpectedly touched.

“The sheer _ amount _ of paperwork I’d’ve had to do, not to mention the _ lawsuit _ potential,” Beelzebub continued, “could have cost the company _ millions.” _

“Good to see your heart’s in the right place,” said Crowley.

He heard Aziraphale snort, next to him, and looked over out of instinct. Aziraphale turned away.

The fire brigade arrived, then, sirens blaring, fire engines squealing into the car park. A lot of yelling occurred, to which Crowley paid a bare minimum of attention. _ Good riddance, _ he thought, bitterly, _ to this entire blasted building. _

He dug into his trouser pockets, intending to grab his phone, but instead pulled out an unfamiliar key. He stared at it for a moment before remembering.

“Oh, _ no,” _he said, softly, looking down at the key, the key to the locker where he’d left his briefcase, which contained— 

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, coming up to him. “Are you all right?”

Crowley met his eyes. “Oh, Jesus, Aziraphale, I’m so sorry, it’s just—your notebook, with the comments on your novel—it’s in my briefcase, and—” He indicated the key in his hand.

“My notebook?” Aziraphale asked, in a tone Crowley’d never heard him use before. “It’s in there? In your locker?”

Crowley nodded, and looked down, anticipating the hurt that would flash in Aziraphale’s eyes, unable to stomach seeing it, seeing that he’d caused it. But instead of sighing, or expressing disappointment, or sorrow, Aziraphale said, “Right,” in a steely voice, and grabbed the key from Crowley’s hand. 

“What are you—” Crowley began, but broke off as Aziraphale turned away from him and ran headlong into the building. The _ burning _ building. 

“You _ idiot,” _said Crowley, under his breath, and dashed after him, going against every instinct of self-preservation.

He slammed into a stocky frame, muttered an apology, and looked up to discover that a firefighter had grasped him by the shoulders.

“You can’t go in there, young man.”

Crowley struggled forward. “No, I—my, my _ friend, _ he’s just run in after his stupid bloody _ notebook—” _

The firefighter held him back. “We’ll send someone in after him. But _ not _you.”

Crowley stared at him in helpless frustration.

“Okay?” the firefighter asked, an edge to his voice.

“Okay,” said Crowley, and the firefighter let him go, and Crowley darted around him and sprinted towards the building, yelling Aziraphale’s name, dimly aware that there were people running after him, that this was, possibly, the stupidest thing he had ever done and also quite likely the most important, because _ if something happened to Aziraphale _and it was his fault, he didn’t know how he could ever— 

The smoke was thicker, now, than it had been on the way out, and Crowley stumbled through with stinging eyes, trying to call out for Aziraphale but producing only a hacking cough. There were people, somewhere, he could hear them, but he fought his way through the smoke to where he vaguely remembered the lockers being. He stumbled into something sharp, and felt a stabbing pain in his calf, but staggered forward nevertheless, 

And then his searching hands met shoulders, solid shoulders, and he heard Aziraphale’s voice, thick with smoke and feeling, say, “Crowley? What are you—”

“I am _ damned,” _said Crowley, through the coughs, “if I’m letting you get killed for the sake of that notebook.”

Aziraphale nodded grimly, and held something up, and Crowley squinted at it through the haze.

“No one,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, “is getting killed, let’s just—”

Crowley nodded, and turned back, and they ran out of the building together, _ again, _ out into the open air, where they were met, this time, by a number of rather irritated firefighters and a considerably more baffled group of coworkers. Beelzebub, Crowley noticed, in between hacking up his lungs, was busily disclaiming liability to anyone who would listen, because “they ran back in there _ themselves _ this time, it stopped being a company-sanctioned event when they did that, anyway, they signed waivers.” She paused. “Gabriel, you _ did _remember to have everyone sign waivers, right?”

But Gabriel wasn’t listening to her. He strode towards Crowley and Aziraphale, looking the most serious Crowley had ever seen him. _ Frightening, _almost, and Crowley was abruptly reminded that his idiot boss had the power to make his life extremely miserable.

“What,” Gabriel asked, his voice flinty, “did you two think you were doing, exactly?”

“I forgot something,” Crowley said, hurriedly, “had to go get—”

Aziraphale held a hand up to stop him. “No. I ran in first, you saw. It was my notebook. My decision.”

Gabriel took the notebook from Aziraphale, flipped through the pages. _ “This,” _ he said, incredulously, “is important enough to run into a burning building for? Seriously, Aziraphale, _ priorities, _ do you _ know _ how much of a mess we’d have on our hands if you got injured? And over something so, I don’t know, _ trivial?” _

Personally, Crowley heartily concurred that this had been an idiotic move on Aziraphale’s part—well, on _ both _their parts—but hell if he was letting Gabriel say that. 

He was gathering the wherewithal to speak, but Aziraphale beat him to it. “You do not,” he said, in a voice that cut like a sword, “get to tell me what is and is not important.” He snatched the notebook back from Gabriel.

“Hey!” said Gabriel. Aziraphale turned to walk away. “Hey, I am _ talking _ to you, here, we are _ not done, _ you come back _ now, _that’s an order—”

Aziraphale kept walking. 

Crowley stared after him. It was, he reflected, so easy to see Aziraphale’s softness, his kindness, the amount of joy he could squeeze out of the tiniest, most ridiculous things, that it became altogether too easy to forget just how strong he was, underneath.

Gabriel made a sound like a vacuum cleaner powering down and went to go bother one of the firefighters.

* * *

They got back to the office, eventually, after the fire brigade had determined that everyone was unhurt. The whole thing had been the result, apparently, of a breakroom mishap involving Shadwell and a cheese pita, and Crowley wondered idly why those sorts of things never happened in _ their _breakroom. 

They filed off the bus, the team having decidedly not been built—or, maybe it had been, a bit, because they’d had a bonding experience, anyway, even if it wasn’t the one Gabriel had planned on. There were desultory goodbyes, and see-you-tomorrows (_ why _was it only Thursday?) and quiet chatter as everyone went to their cars.

Crowley lingered in the car park, staring bleakly into the bushes outside their office building, resolving to go home and start researching flats in Portsmouth.

He looked up, after some minutes, and saw that everyone had gone. He sighed, and fumbled for his car keys, and then— 

“Crowley.” 

He turned. Aziraphale was there, standing a few feet away from him.

Crowley fumbled, and dropped his keys. He didn’t pick them up.

“What?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t go to Portsmouth.”

Crowley’s heart leapt into his throat, and he looked around, and they were the only people in the car park, in the industrial park, in the entire world, and Aziraphale was standing there looking at him with unasked questions in his eyes.

“Because of you?” Crowley croaked.

“Because of me,” Aziraphale said, softly, and took a few steps closer.

“We can’t—” Crowley stuttered, his voice breaking. “The rules—”

“Oh, _ fuck _the rules,” said Aziraphale, and kissed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time i write a cliffhanger i think of [ this recurring segment](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlcmdx3MF6I) from the early 2000s PBS television series Read Between the Lions
> 
> This chapter is inspired by the _ Office _ episodes "The Fire," "Beach Games," and "The Job."
> 
> Thanks to TheOldAquarian for the (brilliant) idea of locking them in a smaller room within the escape room!
> 
> Please do feel free to come yell at me on tumblr: [fremulon](http://fremulon.tumblr.com)


	8. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to weatheredlaw for beta reading and for all her support and encouragement!

Crowley’s brain froze. Complete systems overload, fatal failure, 404 Rational Thought Not Found. The hapless employees of the Crowley’s Brain IT Department were scrambling around, attempting reboots and resets and emergency maintenance to no avail.

Only, that wasn’t strictly true, was it? Crowley’s brain was just currently devoting all its processing power to one particular program: Kissing Aziraphale.

It was a _ very _pleasant program, all things considered, and ran for a good few minutes, until Aziraphale stepped back with apparent reluctance.

Crowley sagged back against his car, breathing heavily. “Wow,” he said, once he could speak again. “I—wow.”

Aziraphale exhaled. “Yes, rather.”

“Um,” Crowley said, “not that I didn’t find that, uh, _ extremely _informative, but, to be clear—”

“To be clear,” Aziraphale said, beaming, “I’m asking you not to leave because I’m in love with you.”

A delightful sort of shiver ran down Crowley’s spine. “Good—” He cleared his throat. “Good to know.” He tried to hold back his next question, tried not to sound like a nine-year-old girl passing _ do-you-like-me _notes, but impulse won out, and he blurted, “How long?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Goodness, I don’t know precisely. Years, certainly. It didn’t happen all at once, you know.”

_ Not for you, maybe, _Crowley thought. Aloud, he said, “Then why—at Christmas—when I tried—”

“I thought I had made myself clear,” Aziraphale said, softly. “At the time, I thought, no, I can’t do this, no matter how much, how desperately I want this, because if we were found out, and Crowley lost his job, his career, his future, I’d never forgive myself. And, you know, I loved you too much to let you risk that for me.”

“So then what—what changed?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I have spent my entire adult life avoiding risk, avoiding taking chances, anything that might possibly bring me pain, or, or unpleasantness. I made some _ bad _ choices, you know, when I was younger, and I got hurt by the consequences, and somewhere along the line I decided I was only ever going to play it safe, so I wouldn’t ever get hurt or disappointed again. This _ stultifying _ job, my whole _ life, _ all of it, it’s been this bland, safe stasis. And I thought, I thought writing a novel was the way to go, because that was _ safe, _ I could do it without changing anything, really. But. The fire. I didn’t even _ think _ about it, I just ran in, and you—you came after me, and I realized two things.” He took a breath. “One, that I can’t control everything, and no matter _ what _ I do, how careful I am, bad things will still happen. So I might as well try to be happy, even if it means opening myself up to sadness. And, two, that if you were willing to run into a burning building after me, then who was I to stop you from risking your _ job? _So, I’m done playing it safe, I’m done denying myself the things I want, and I want—”

“You want me,” Crowley said, half-disbelieving.

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” said Aziraphale, and now it was Crowley’s turn to initiate another round of very enthusiastic kissing.

“Sorry,” he said, after a bit, “you _ were _done, yes?”

“Even if I hadn’t been,” Aziraphale said, “you’ve made me lose my train of thought in rather spectacular fashion.”

“Spectacular, eh?” Crowley asked, feeling a grin spread over his face, so wide it made his cheeks ache. 

“Oh, hush,” said Aziraphale, fondly. “Yes.” 

Crowley was just about to reach out and see if he could wrangle a grade increase from _ spectacular _ to _ miraculous, _when, above them, a light flicked on in the office building.

“Shit,” hissed Crowley, and stepped away. “Do you think anyone—”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Look, it’s only the cleaners.”

Crowley exhaled in relief. “Still. I think we’d better, um—We could—”

“Your flat is closer, I think,” said Aziraphale softly.

Crowley swallowed, and wet his lips, and was suddenly very warm all over. “Yeah,” he said, a trifle shakily.

“Or we could, we could go to a restaurant,” Aziraphale said, quickly, “I didn’t mean to presume, if you’d rather not—”

“No, no, no, no, no,” said Crowley, even more quickly, “I’d. I’d like that very much. Yes. My flat.”

“Only if that’s what you want,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nodded vigorously. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

* * *

“I don’t _ want _to go to work today,” Aziraphale said, in what wasn’t quite a whine but was certainly on its way there.

Crowley rolled over in bed to face him and grinned. “Welcome to how I feel every day, angel.”

(The endearment had slipped out at some point during the previous night’s proceedings, and Aziraphale had seemed to approve, if subsequent actions were anything to go by, so Crowley had decided to run with it.)

“Why bother to drag yourself in, then?” Aziraphale asked, shifting onto his side to parallel Crowley.

Crowley laughed. “It’s _ really _ embarrassing, but the thing is, I’ve got this _ huge _crush on the receptionist.”

Said receptionist proceeded to demonstrate his reciprocation with a very thorough kiss, which was just beginning to turn into a very thorough something else when Crowley’s alarm went off.

“Aaah,” said Aziraphale, clapping his hands over his ears. “Why must it be so _ loud?” _

Crowley sat up reluctantly and switched off the alarm. “I sleep like the dead, normally,” he said, “when I’m not getting kicked in the shins all night.” He slid his legs out from under the covers, his feet touching the floor. “Wonder if I’ve got any bruises.”

“Oh, I’m _ sorry,” _ said Aziraphale sarcastically, “did you pass an _ unpleasant _ night? I do apologize if my presence _ at all _affected your ability to sleep—”

Crowley got all the way out of bed and walked around to Aziraphale’s side. “I wonder,” he said, mock-thoughtfully, “how _ on earth _I can get you to shut up.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, right,” Crowley said, and planted his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s pillow before leaning down to kiss him again.

“I’ll have to annoy you more often, it seems,” Aziraphale said after a bit.

“We really _ do _have to go to work, though,” Crowley said, opening a drawer to grab some trousers. “And you’d better stop home, too, unless you want Michael asking you why you’ve got on the same clothes as yesterday.”

“Can’t we call in sick?” Aziraphale asked.

“You,” Crowley said, “are a _ terrible _influence. But, no. I’ve got to give Gabriel my answer about Portsmouth today, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale made a face. “That’s right. And I’d better apologize for telling him off yesterday, can’t go tanking my reference.”

“Your reference?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve been—well, I’ve been job hunting. On account of...well, anyway, I’ve been looking. There’s just not much I’m qualified for in Swindon.”

“Not much worth _ doing _in Swindon, more like,” said Crowley. “Have you been, ah, looking long?”

“Since Christmas,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley stopped cold. “Since…”

_ “Yes,” _said Aziraphale, and blushed so fetchingly that Crowley was obligated to drop everything and kiss him again.

“You should’ve _ said _something,” he said, breaking away. “If I’d known you were trying to find a way out, I’d have—”

“You’d have done something impulsive and gallant and idiotic,” said Aziraphale, “like quit _ your _ job, and that was exactly what I _ didn’t _want.”

Crowley, remembering how close he’d come to resigning anyway, with the bare hint of encouragement Aziraphale _ had _given him, was forced to admit that he had a point.

“So,” Aziraphale said, getting out of bed, “until I _ do _ manage to find something else, we’ll just have to be _ very _careful. Which, yes, means that I’d better stop home for some new clothes before heading into work.”

“When—” Crowley tripped over the words a bit—“when can I see you again?”

“In—” Aziraphale glanced at the alarm clock— “an hour and a half?”

“No, I don’t—I don’t mean at _ work, _I mean—”

“Ah. Well. Would...would tonight be too soon? Dinner?”

“Not too soon,” Crowley said, and was embarrassed by how quickly he said it, and then remembered that he didn’t have to be embarrassed anymore. “Tonight’s...it’s great. Perfect.”

“Perfect,” said Aziraphale.

* * *

Somehow, despite having to go home and change, Aziraphale still managed to beat Crowley into work. Crowley strongly suspected it had something to do with the fact that he’d gotten in the shower after Aziraphale’s departure and stayed there for another half-hour, reliving every moment from the previous night, cataloging every touch and sound in his mind. Driving into work, he was half-afraid he’d imagined the whole thing, that it had all been an extremely vivid hallucination induced by his near-death experience at the escape room.

But then he walked in the door at CPC, and Aziraphale smiled at him, a smile full of love and affection and just a touch of slyness, a smile that said “you and I know something no one else does, and isn’t that _ delicious _?”

And Crowley was resoundingly sure that it _ hadn’t _ been a dream. 

He sat down at his desk, trying not to let himself gaze at Aziraphale like a besotted puppy and only partly succeeding.

“You look happy,” said Ligur suspiciously. “Why’re you in such a good mood?”

“No reason,” said Crowley. “Hey, is Gabriel in?”

Ligur nodded. “You’re _ never _ in this good of a mood. _ Especially _first thing in the morning.”

“I’ve started meditating,” Crowley said, getting up. “It’s really given me a new perspective on things. You should try it.” He winked at a still-unconvinced Ligur and headed into Gabriel’s office.

“Crowley!” Gabriel said, looking not particularly pleased to see him. “Can’t say I think much of that _ stunt _you pulled yesterday. If you’re committed to a future at this company, I’d recommend you start acting like more of a leader. I had half a mind to call head office and tell them to rescind your promotion.”

“Go ahead,” said Crowley.

Gabriel chuckled nervously. “Nice bluff. All right, I’ll let it slide, but—”

“I’m not bluffing.”

Gabriel’s mouth snapped shut.

Crowley nodded. “They can take back the offer. I’m turning it down. Staying here.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Why—”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s not the direction I want to go in,” he said, and the thing was, he wasn’t even lying. Quite apart from any personal considerations, he really _ didn’t _want to be sales lead. He was starting to suspect that he very likely didn’t want to be in Sales, period.

“All right,” said Gabriel, “well, it’s your call.”

“Thanks,” said Crowley, and left without waiting for a response. 

His Slack pinged as soon as he got back to his chair.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Good morning. <3

**CROWLEY: **very good morning

**CROWLEY: **excellent morning

**CROWLEY: **strong contender for best morning ever imho

**AZIRAPHALE: **That’s good to hear.

**AZIRAPHALE: **Did you just turn down the Portsmouth job?

**CROWLEY: **yeah

**AZIRAPHALE: **I still feel a bit guilty.

**CROWLEY: **honestly? don’t. it wasn’t the right direction for me. regardless of any other considerations.

**AZIRAPHALE: **All right.

**CROWLEY: **hey guess what

**AZIRAPHALE: **What?

**CROWLEY: **i love you

**AZIRAPHALE: **I also love you, professionally, because you’re such a good coworker.

Crowley looked up in surprise. Aziraphale jerked his head meaningfully in the direction of Beelzebub’s desk, and Crowley remembered that Personnel had access to all Slack chats, if they chose to look at them.

**CROWLEY: **sure, that’s what i meant

**CROWLEY: **love your office-related skills

**CROWLEY: ** i can definitively say that no one else knows their way around a... _ copier... _like you do

**AZIRAPHALE: **Oh, that’s very kind of you. There’s nobody I’d rather make copies for.

**AZIRAPHALE: ** And if I may be so bold, I have nothing but the highest praise for your expense reports. Every time I process them, they’re impeccably filled out, with exquisite attention to detail. One can tell how very careful and _ thorough _you are with them. 

**CROWLEY: **well, expense reports are very important to me

**CROWLEY: **expense reports deserve all that care and attention

**CROWLEY: **i love expense reports. a truly ridiculous amount.

“What’re you smiling at?” Hastur asked, leaning over to peek at Crowley’s computer screen.

“Nothing,” he said, quickly exiting Slack. “Just checking in about my expense reports, that’s all.”

“I don’t get you,” said Hastur.

Crowley grinned. “Trust me,” he said, “there’s nothing to get.”

* * *

The next few weeks passed in half-hazy delight, as Crowley skived off even more than usual and spent meetings doodling little hearts in the margins of his notepads, and went on dates with Aziraphale—sometimes they went _ out, _of course, because Aziraphale had a long list of restaurants he wanted to try, but they had to head relatively far out of Swindon, to minimize the chances of running into anyone, and most of the time it was simply a great deal easier to stay in.

The not-telling-anyone, hush-hush bit of it all was even a bit thrilling, truth be told. They’d sit in cinemas and hold hands under the seats and brainstorm excuses for if anyone caught them together. 

“I could say,” Crowley whispered, during a less-than-enthralling car chase, “that I just _ happened _ to run into you here, and it was only _ polite _of you to invite me to sit with you.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, “yes, good, but what if they saw me do _ this—” _and he leaned in to kiss Crowley hungrily, as though they were teenagers with overprotective parents, whose only option was to neck in a cinema, and not grown adults with flats of their own.

“Well,” Crowley said, upon separating, “I think you had something in your eye, and I was helping you get it out.”

“So kind of you,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Oh, you know what, though,” Crowley said under his breath, “I think you’ve got something in your _ other _eye, now.” He kissed one of Aziraphale’s temples, then the other, then his mouth.

An empty bucket of popcorn hit him on the back of the head. “Get a room, you two!”

“So very sorry!” Aziraphale called back to the popcorn assailant. “Didn’t mean to trouble you!”

Crowley stifled a much ruder response.

“Shall we?” Aziraphale asked, reaching out to smooth down Crowley’s hair, which had become rather mussed in the last few minutes. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, standing up, “wasn’t much enjoying the film anyway.”

So, all things considered, sneaking around had its detriments.

And more than that, Crowley didn’t like having to contain himself. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops, wanted to go up to strangers on the street and shake them and say “you see that man? You see him? That’s my _ boyfriend, _ and he’s _ brilliant, _ he’s written a novel and he’s sending it out to agents right now and we’re in love and isn’t it beautiful?” He wanted to take artsy photographs of Aziraphale and upload them to Instagram with revoltingly sappy captions, wanted to come into the office _ together _every day instead of at carefully pre-arranged intervals, wanted Aziraphale in the passenger seat of his car as they drove home, instead of taking a circuitous route to meet him somewhere. 

But it was temporary, he told himself, it was temporary, Aziraphale was job hunting and he’d find something soon enough (and Crowley had begun poking around career websites himself, searching for the Holy Grail of a job that he was qualified for but that wouldn’t bore him to death).

He did tell one person at work, and that was mostly because she’d pretty much known already.

“Of course,” Anathema Device said, taking a sip of her green tea. (They were out at a cafe for “client cultivation purposes,” which translated in this case to “getting out of the office for an hour to talk about nothing in particular.”) “I told you, Aunt Agnes is never wrong.”

“Well, she _ was,” _ Crowley said, “y’know, _ technically, _because he wasn’t my boyfriend then.”

“Just because she got the timing a bit off,” said Anathema, “doesn’t mean she was _ wrong.” _

Crowley didn’t think it was worth arguing the point. “But you can’t tell anyone, all right? It’s not—we’re not _ allowed, _at our company. Against the rules.”

Anathema nodded. “Of course. Oh, and I’m supposed to tell you that we want Ligur as our new sales rep, once you leave.”

“Once I—”

“Leave, yes, Aunt Agnes said you would.”

“Well, I—” Crowley took a gulp of coffee to buy a bit of time. “I mean, _ definitely _ don’t tell anyone this, but I _ am _ job-hunting, because it _ is _ an untenable situation, but I haven’t—I’ve barely even _ applied _ for anything, certainly haven’t _ interviewed, _it’s more likely it’ll be Aziraphale who—”

Anathema shook her head. “I don’t know anything about Aziraphale. I just know that by the end of next month, we’ll have a new sales rep.”

Crowley swallowed. He did _ not, _ he absolutely did _ not, _ believe in ESP or second sight or sixth senses or fifth dimensions or any of it. Even if Anathema’s aunt had been right about him and Aziraphale before, well, he’d probably been acting besotted as ever when they were in the shop, had bought him a _ notebook, _ for heaven’s sake, it was only simple powers of observation that could’ve made her know there was anything other than a professional relationship between them. There certainly wasn’t any reason to believe that her abilities extended into _ predicting the future. _

Still, he went back to the office feeling more than a little worried. 

**AZIRAPHALE: **What’s wrong? Did the meeting with Device’s go all right? 

Crowley frowned at his Slack window. He couldn’t very well write “I’m worried our secret relationship will be found out and one or both of us will get fired” over company IM.

**CROWLEY: **yeah meeting was fine

**CROWLEY: **i’m just a little bit worried about the...quality assurance process

**CROWLEY: **if the client finds even one flaw in the product, even one piece of evidence that we’re not doing what we’re supposed to, we could lose the whole account

**AZIRAPHALE: **Ah. I believe I understand.

**AZIRAPHALE: **We’ll have to be very careful with the quality of our products, then. Can’t let anything slip through the cracks.

**CROWLEY: **yeah of course

**CROWLEY: **super careful

And they _ were _ careful. Crowley went to great lengths not to change anything about his behavior towards Aziraphale in the office, which meant acting just as hopelessly in love with him as ever, spending the same amount of time at Reception talking about nothing in particular, sending the same amount of flirtatious Slack messages (even if they were a bit more laden with double entendres, these days). (Well, _ purposeful _double entendres. They’d always been laden with the accidental kind.)

But it was _ hard _to be constantly vigilant, particularly in the joyful bubble of a new relationship. It was hard to remember not to say “love you, bye,” when leaving, to avoid taking his hand in the elevator, to keep from casually mentioning their plans for the evening, or the weekend. (Crowley had invented several new hobbies for himself for the purposes of deflection. Hastur now believed that he’d gotten very into paper-mache and was taking an adult education class on beekeeping.)

So it was inevitable, in a way, that they’d forget eventually.

It was a bit after five-thirty, and the office was nearly empty. Aziraphale was finishing up some filing, because Gabriel had, as usual, left the necessary paperwork unsigned until the end of the day, and Crowley had been on the phone with a customer since quarter to, trying to assure them that CPC would _ not, _ in fact, be changing its product lineup to eliminate the particular stock that they wanted, they had no intentions of doing so at any point, and they should _ certainly _refrain from switching paper suppliers as a result of this nonexistent change.

Eventually, they seemed to accept his repeated reassurances, and Crowley hung up the phone with a great deal of relief.

“Difficult call?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Could be worse. Didn’t lose the client, so. All’s well that ends well.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. 

“How much of that have you got left?” Crowley asked, coming over towards Reception.

Aziraphale sighed. “Not quite certain. Gabriel’s labelled them in a _ most _unhelpful fashion.”

“Let me look?” Crowley asked, stepping behind the reception desk.

“Be my guest,” Aziraphale said, and swiveled his chair aside. 

Crowley surveyed the various forms spread haphazardly across the desk. “You are a really _ terrible _organizer, aren’t you?”

“It makes sense _ to me,” _said Aziraphale defensively, and then, after a moment, “oh, all right, no, it doesn’t, I’ve no idea where anything’s got to or even where it’s supposed to go.”

“Right,” said Crowley, shuffling around the papers and picking one up to read the description, “what you need is a _ system. _You’re just attending to them all at random, as you come to them, and it’s getting you all confused. Take it one thing at a time, do one task for all of them first, then go on to the next step. Make sense?”

“I _ suppose,” _said Aziraphale.

“So,” said Crowley, squinting at the form in his hand, “what we’re going to do is, we’re gonna put all the ones that need to go to London in _ this _ pile, and all the ones that need to get filed here in _ this _pile, and then we can fill out the supplementary forms for all the London ones once we’ve got them all sorted.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, that’s—that sounds very good, thank you, dear, I believe I’ll be able to manage that.”

“Well, I’ll _ help,” _said Crowley, grabbing his own chair from his desk and wheeling it over to Reception, “of course.”

Aziraphale turned in his chair and smiled at him. “Oh, would you?”

“Of _ course,” _ Crowley said again, _ don’t you know by now that I’d be happy picking trash up off the side of the road if you were with me, _“get done faster that way, won’t it?”

“Yes, you’re right, dear,” said Aziraphale, and picked up a few of the forms.

Crowley got through the first stack quickly enough, and paused for a moment when he was done to watch Aziraphale, who’d apparently gotten distracted by whatever was in his hand and was reading it instead of filing it, his golden head bent over the piece of paper, his free hand resting on the desk, pale and soft (and Crowley _ knew _ just how soft, now). Crowley had the sudden desire to see how one of his fingers would look with a ring on it, which was patently _ ridiculous, _given that they’d been dating for less than a month. (Still, he’d found himself slowing down when they walked past jewelry stores, despite his general disdain for the whole capitalistic wedding industry and the human rights issues involved with precious stones.)

He leaned over and kissed the nape of Aziraphale’s bent neck.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale softly, and turned, and looked up at him, “oh, Crowley—”

And without being entirely clear how it had happened, Crowley was in Aziraphale’s lap, kissing him with enough ardor to cause the back of the chair to creak dangerously, and Aziraphale was grasping at the collar of his shirt, and Crowley was pressing up against him as though they could meld into one person, if only they got close enough, and— 

Someone cleared their throat loudly.

Crowley sprang off of Aziraphale’s lap and into a standing position, thrusting his hands quickly into his pockets. He looked up, to see who’d found them—hopefully a caretaker, or someone equally uninvested in the love lives of the CPC employees.

It was Michael.

_ “Shit,” _Crowley said. “Uh, look, that wasn’t—we were just—”

“Engaging in heavy petting on company property?”

“Aaah,” said Crowley, “we—”

“There was something in my eye,” Aziraphale began, and shook his head. “That’s not convincing.”

“You _ can’t _tell Gabriel,” Crowley said, desperately, “please, it won’t ever happen again, I swear to God, it was a, a mistake, that’s all, we don’t—we’re not—”

Michael held up a hand to stop him. “Uriel owes me twenty pounds,” she said, unsmiling. “I _ knew _ something was going on between the two of you. Well, something other than whatever nonsense was going on before.”

“Are you going to tell?” Aziraphale asked, his voice feather-light. “I know you don’t like me.”

“You’re a terrible receptionist,” agreed Michael. “And I _ ought _to tell Gabriel. Or Beelzebub. You’re breaking the rules.”

“Please don’t,” Aziraphale said, standing up, “we—_ please _don’t.”

Michael shrugged. “But, Gabriel _ is _ an idiot. And if you two are stupid enough to conduct your little liaison _ in the actual office, _and he doesn’t manage to figure it out, that’s really on him.”

Crowley felt a surge of hope. “Then you won’t—”

“I’m not promising anything,” Michael said. “But you _ did _just win me twenty pounds.”

She spun on her heel and strode out of the office.

Aziraphale let out a heavy breath. “Do you think she’ll stay quiet?”

Crowley withdrew his hands from his pockets. They were, he noticed, shaking. “I dunno. But, not really anything we can do about it, is there?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Besides never letting this happen again.”

“It’s her word against ours, if it comes down to it,” said Crowley, “but we’re not exactly in Gabriel’s good books right now, so…”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, “best not to go down that road.”

Crowley sank back down into his chair. “The worst part,” he said, swiveling back towards the reception desk, “is that we’ve still got to do all this paperwork.”

It wasn’t much of a joke, but it wrung a weak laugh out of Aziraphale, which was all Crowley had wanted, anyway.

* * *

Crowley was on tenterhooks, the next morning, half-expecting to sit down at his desk and find a note directing him to start packing up his personal effects and let his clients know not to expect him around anymore. (Was _ this _what Anathema’s aunt had predicted?)

Aziraphale gave him a shaky smile, from behind Reception, and Crowley hoped that at least that meant nothing had happened _ yet. _

And Gabriel stayed put in his office, and Beelzebub didn’t come out of her corner to start the offboarding process, and Crowley opened up his email to a distinct lack of official reprimands.

And then his phone rang.

“Crowley here,” he said, and looked over at Aziraphale, who wasn’t even pretending to pay attention to his computer screen anymore, but was watching Crowley, face tight with worry.

“Hello, Crowley,” and he knew that voice, female and well-bred and a little bit cold—CEO of the Celestial Paper Company, God Herself, was on the line.

Which, oh _ shit, _ had Michael really gone that far over Gabriel’s head? To get him fired by _ the CEO? _ Because even for her, that was _ wicked. _

“Hello,” he said, and he could hear the tremor in his voice.

“Who is it?” Aziraphale mouthed.

“CEO,” Crowley mouthed back, and one of Aziraphale’s hands flew to his mouth in evident surprise.

“So I heard you turned down that position in Portsmouth,” the CEO said, and this was so entirely not what Crowley was expecting to hear that it took him a moment to formulate a response.

“Ah. Yeah. Decided...not for me.”

“And why is that, Crowley?”

“Well,” Crowley said, figuring “our receptionist finally told me he loves me” was not likely to be an acceptable answer, “it’s just that, if I’m being honest, I never really saw myself as a sales lead. Or, lead of any kind, really.”

“Understood,” said the CEO. “But you’re not...satisfied, in your current role, are you?”

There really wasn’t a safe answer to that question, so Crowley went with the truth. “Not really, no.”

“You’re a big-picture thinker, Crowley,” she said, and Crowley wasn’t really sure if it was a question.

He uttered a sort of noncommittal grunt.

“We need big-picture thinkers,” she continued. “People with ideas. The paper industry’s not what it used to be. It probably won’t ever be what it used to be. What we have to do is _ pivot. _ We need to make Celestial Paper mean something more than just _ paper.” _

“Isn’t ‘paper’ literally in the name, though?”

“You see, Crowley? These are the questions we need asked.”

“So what are you saying?” Crowley asked, warily. 

“Crowley,” the CEO asked, “how would you like to work in Marketing?”

“Uh,” said Crowley. “What?”

“You know our customers. You know what makes them tick, what they want from their paper company. We’re expanding our marketing team, and we want you on it. You don’t have to answer right away,” she added, “but take a little while, think about it, get back to us. I’ll have my assistant Adam send along the details of the position. But the main thing you need to know: instead of winning over one customer at a time, instead of persuading and coaxing them into a sale, we want you to sell to hundreds of customers at once, by shaping our brand message and influencing them to choose us. It’s about efficiency, Crowley. It’s about the most impact with the least effort. Does that sound like it might be a good fit?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, entirely too eagerly, but, Christ, he was already creating strategies in his head. Some sort of ad, maybe, where every mobile phone network in the area goes down, and there’s shots of people writing letters, _ real _ letters, on paper, and the message is: paper’s always there for you. They could re-brand as retro-cool, run some sort of promotional campaign, _ write to your mom _ sort of thing, prove that you’ve done it and enter to win a prize. He was, he realized, _ excited, _ and that wasn’t an emotion he’d felt about anything having to do with his actual job in _ years. _

“Great,” said the CEO, “there’s just one more thing. The position’s based in London. So, take your time, review the offer, let us know. Talk to you soon.”

And then she’d hung up, without giving Crowley a chance to say “thank you,” or even “goodbye.”

Aziraphale was still watching him, looking less anxious than before but still a trifle nervy.

Crowley got up and strolled over to Reception, the way he’d done so many times over the last five years. 

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, under his breath. 

Crowley smiled, so widely his face felt about to crack open. “Angel,” he said, quietly, “how would you like to move to London?” 

Aziraphale’s expression began to lighten, a dove rising out of the clouds of confusion. “With you?”

“With me,” Crowley confirmed, and was rewarded by the sight of Aziraphale’s delighted smile.

“I’d like that,” he said, still low enough that no one around them could hear, “a very great deal.”

* * *

Their departure from CPC Swindon was, in the end, somewhat underwhelming. Aziraphale had confessed a fantasy of telling off each and every member of the staff, with particular attention given to Gabriel’s insensitivity and Michael’s cattiness, but as Crowley was still technically going to be working at CPC, even in a different office, this was unfortunately dismissed.

“Besides,” Crowley pointed out, “Michael didn’t rat on us, did she? Bit hard to go off on her after that.”

“You have a _ point,” _said Aziraphale, but he insisted on giving the speeches anyway, in private, while Crowley did his best impression of Gabriel’s response.

(Crowley also had some fantasies about quitting, mostly involving striding over to Reception and kissing Aziraphale in full view of the entire office, then sweeping him up and carrying him bridal-style over the threshold, giving his coworkers the finger as he left. These were also left unrealized, but certain parts wound their way into reality nevertheless, although it turned out bridal carries were harder than they looked, particularly when your boyfriend had a good twenty pounds on you and a marked tendency to wriggle.)

But in the end, it was a signed resignation letter for Aziraphale and transfer paperwork for Crowley, and they left the office together in the usual fashion, both on their feet.

“And good riddance, too,” said Aziraphale, as they exited into the parking lot. 

The new flat in London was ridiculously expensive, of course, but the marketing job came with a correspondingly higher salary, and Aziraphale drew up a budget for them that still left plenty of room for indulgences. He’d found a job working in the back room of a used bookshop, cataloguing rare finds using the old, eccentric owner’s out-of-date card system. It wasn’t, he told Crowley, _ perfect, _not by any means, but he was able to work on one thing at a time, lose himself in whatever book was in front of him, without worrying about missing something else. And he’d gotten full manuscript requests from a few literary agents, too, was waiting on their responses and working on his next book in the meantime.

Crowley’s new job wasn’t perfect, either. It was, for one thing, a great deal more stressful, and some of the marketing team were nearly as obnoxious as Hastur, and there were still times when he felt about to collapse from boredom. But he got to come up with _ ideas, _ now, and people listened to them, and even if they ended up changing them past all resemblance to Crowley’s original thought before implementing them, at least he’d been involved in the process. It felt _ right, _in a way that Sales never had.

It was a strange adjustment, living with Aziraphale, after five years of seeing him all day at work and then not at all afterwards, to switch to the exact opposite. But they didn’t have to hide, not anymore, just had to fudge the start date of their relationship by a few weeks (and no one seemed inclined to look too closely into it). They met each other’s coworkers, and went out together, and made new acquaintances, some of whom seemed poised to develop into new friends. They ambled around the city together, poking their heads in interesting-looking shops, trying out every restaurant with more than four-and-a-half stars on Yelp.

“What are you smiling about?” Aziraphale asked, one Sunday, looking up from his book at Crowley curled up on the sofa, staring blankly into space.

Crowley pulled himself back from his daydream. “Just you, angel,” he said, glancing over.

_ “Just _me?” asked Aziraphale, in mock outrage. “Rather unflattering, I must say—”

Crowley unwound himself, stood up from the sofa, crossed over to Aziraphale in his easy chair. “Just you,” he confirmed, “just about how idiotically happy you make me.”

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, half-suppressed laughter in his voice, “you _ cannot _blame me for the fact that you are an idiot.”

“Nah,” said Crowley, standing wide-legged in front of the easy chair, planting one hand on either arm, and sticking his face over the top of Aziraphale’s book. “Mostly I blame you for the _ happy.” _

“Well,” said Aziraphale, carefully closing the book, “that’s all right, then, because you’ve made _ me _ simply _ ecstatic.” _

“Blissful,” Crowley countered, and took a step back as Aziraphale stood up.

_ “Euphoric,” _said Aziraphale, firmly, and wound his arms around Crowley’s neck.

“Rapturous,” said Crowley, and let his own arms snake around Aziraphale’s waist.

“Rhapsodic,” said Aziraphale, and tugged Crowley’s head down to kiss him.

This was very satisfactory for a variety of reasons, not least of which was that Crowley had run out of synonyms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> This chapter is based partly on the Office episode "Fun Run" but mostly on the Parks and Rec episode "Li'l Sebastian." (Yeah, I let some more Parks slip in there, what of it?)
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you for reading and commenting and sharing; I'm so delighted people have enjoyed this fic! Special shout-out to whoever keeps messaging me sitcom quotes on Tumblr, they've been super entertaining.
> 
> Speaking of which, I'm [ fremulon](https://fremulon.tumblr.com) over there; feel free to come by and ask me any questions about this AU (or like...anything).
> 
> But for real, I'm a disaster millennial feeling bored and adrift at work, and it's been pretty...freeing? to let all my thoughts about that out into the world via two lazy idiots who hate their jobs, so this one's for all of us out there who haven't found our way yet. I hope we get there eventually.


End file.
